


The Crossroads

by Lady_Neve



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aramis Angst, Aramis Assassin, Aramis Whump, Canon-Typical Violence, Demisexual Louis, Description of a past rape, Fluff and Smut, Gambling, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Magic, Medic Aramis, Mid-Season Series 02, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Minor Character Death, Multi, NSFW, Nipple Play, Non Consent, Not cannon-compliant except when it is, Occasionally Dark, Polyamory, Public Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Savoy, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Violence, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Voyeurism, Witchcraft, d'Artagnan Angst, glimpsed F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 72,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7603441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Neve/pseuds/Lady_Neve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the Eve of the Summer Solstice, Captain Treville notices a red ring around the moon. Secretly a guardian in the service of Hecate, he scries and discovers a plot to alter the course of history to favor Richelieu, Milady, Rochefort, and the King. Unless Treville and d'Artagnan can stop them, the demonic spell the villians cast will alter this time--forever changing the course of destined events; the lives of Aramis, Athos, and Porthos; and destroying the Order of the Blue Cloak once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU taking place at approximately the same time as the TV series. I will do my best to leave out Season 3 events as I found them and the character's motivations illogical; although, the war with Spain may still play into this story.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written by a fan for the enjoyment of other fans. All  
> copyrights belong to Alexandre Dumas (père) and the BBC. No copyright infringement is  
> intended and no profit is made from this.
> 
> My work is not intended for minors. If you are under 18 years of age, please read elsewhere.

Treville walked out of his office onto the balcony and leaned over. He rested his forearms on the two indentations he and other captains before him had worn smooth. He looked out onto what he could see of the city. Paris seemed to glow under the light of the summer solstice moon. Everything looked calm, smelled calm, the air even tasted calm; however, he was not calm. He forced his body to be still ... to appear for all the world as a soldier taking a much needed break. Yet. Yet. He had avoided looking directly at the moon, but he knew he must look now. He slowly turned his face skyward.

A red ring glowed around the full face of the moon--blood on the moon. Something evil was afoot and death, violent death, would surely follow. He growled softly, said a quick prayer to Hecate for protection for those he loved and himself, and turned back toward his office.

Once inside, he glanced around at the sparse surroundings. Against one wall was a single cot. His blue cloak fanned out in the shape of a crescent moon draped over the mattress. A large old oak desk sat in the middle of the room. An organized pile of papers demanding his attention placed dead center along side his writing implements and ink. Impatiently, he shoved them aside almost spilling the ink. 

“Well, that won’t do,” he spoke to himself softly, wryly. He pulled his athame from his sash. He studied the tool as he again said a quick prayer to Hecate. The silver blade on his athame reflected beams of light around the room just as the onyx of the handle seemed to absorb the candle glow. He rolled the blade letting his thumbs trace the torch to honor Hecate’s mother, Asteria, goddess of the shining star. This was fashioned into the black handle on one side and a Y to represent a crossroads in time was carved into the other side. A moonstone set dead center in the Y served to remind him of where he must be to look at the past, the present, and the future. This athame had been in the Treville family for centuries even before the Christ when the women in his family served the gods as seers at Delphi, as high priestesses in the temples of Athens, and as healers in Corinth. The men in his family served as well always as soldiers, protectors, guardians. 

He used the tip of the athame to tap a small drawer located on the left side of his desk. The empty drawer slid out. Treville tapped it again and the drawer revealed a white stone bowl the size of his hand, a small mirror the silver wavy with age, a ball made of clear crystal, and a folded piece of indigo velvet. He opened the velvet onto his desk smoothing the creases out as he went and then waved the athame slowly over the ball, mirror, and bowl. The knife vibrated in his hand as he held it over the bowl. 

“So, water scrying, it is,” he murmured as he carefully placed the bowl onto the velvet and said another prayer. This time for peace and protection of this sacred space while he scried. Treville was pleased. Water scrying as one of the first forms of divination his mother shared with him so many years ago. To small to balance in a chair, he sat on her lap as she taught him the symbols and omens he might encounter. 

Treville moved to lock his door and retrieve the pitcher of rainwater he kept on his windowsill. He returned to his desk and tapped the pitcher with the blade tip blessing the water and clearing the space by way of sound vibration. The high-pitched peal helped him to clear his head as well. 

In order for the scry to work, he must place himself into a light trance. He poured some of the water into the bowl and tapped the pitcher again. Treville closed his eyes and focused on the chime. He counted to nine, took a slow breath in and tapped the pitcher again. He exhaled and repeated nine times--nine taps, nine chimes, nine breaths in, and nine breaths out.

“Hecate, I have dedicated my life to you. I fear for the actions being taken this night. You sent the omen moon to me so that I might serve you. Please show me what I need to see.” He peered into the water watching it ripple, then churn, then still.

The first image blurry and bloody slowly emerged. Not blood just red. The cardinal. “No surprise there,” he frowned. 

Richelieu dissolved into the King. Louis’ frightened yet resolute expression then dissolved into that of a man with dirty blond hair and a hungry look in his eyes. “Who are you?” 

The stranger’s face faded into an image of a room lit by candle light. Black candles, he said still speaking aloud, “This does not bode well.” 

The image remained but seemed to move within the room. Treville noticed a tall table. He willed the image to move closer. The men stood around the altar. The cardinal read from the book in an odd language that sounded like a bastardized latin of sorts. The words hurt Treville’s ears, and he grimaced as he forced himself to study what he was seeing. The stranger held his own athame. The silver flickered in the candlelight as blood dripped from the tip. Something squalled on the table. It was being held down by a woman Treville did know, “Milady.”

“Oh, Hecate ...” he mumbled. He could feel the goddesses anger moving through his body in waves. His heart clenched as if refusing to take one more beat. As the goddess of childbirth and the health of children, Treville knew this blood sacrifice would appall her just as it did him. “I will avenge this babe, I so swear.” He felt a burn as if someone was taking a quill pen and marking an ‘x’ into his once-again beating heart. It seemed his goddess would hold him to his vow.

The image changed to a clock; the hands spinning backwards. “They are attempting to alter time ... the past.”

An old brass lamp badly in need of cleaning came into view. “A djinn--wishes, but whose?”

And then, the garrison itself opened up before him. “The Musketeers?” He again willed the image to sweep the grounds finally settling on the table located just below his office. His eyes drawn to the four men sitting there as if posed for a painting--until they began to move.

To the left and leaning toward the table was a man dressed in his musketeer leathers; his blue cape swept over one shoulder. He cut a fine figure. His body trim and muscular. His clothes clean and his beard neat. Treville recognized this handsome soldier as Aramis. Aramis placed a hand on a large man’s shoulder.

Porthos turned to Aramis. His face strong and smiling as he looked up at his brother. Aramis nodded his head toward the man seated next to Porthos. Porthos turned and grinned at d’Artagnan. The youngest Musketeer dressed in his still somewhat new looking uniform was staring up at Athos, trained on his face. Athos, looking a bit more dusty than the others and a tad hungover, mirrored Aramis on the right of the table leaning in to show d’Artagnan his main dagger. “Why this image?” Treville asked the empty room.

Then the image flickered, and Treville heard the sounds of battle. Metal clashed and horses neighed as officers ordered men to their deaths. He smelled blood and infection and rot. Treville understood these sounds and aromas were for him. The worst sounds he could think of. Sounds to tell him the bad thing was coming. The odors to tell him it was already too late. A new image appeared in the bowl.

The garrison again. The same table. But, the men, his men, “No ... No” he gasped.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville will not have to deal with this alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter. Longer ones will be posted later.
> 
> I do not have a beta so all mistakes are mine. Feel free to let me know if you find any, and I will do my best to fix them.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a transformative work. The BBC and Dumas own what they own. Original content is mine.

Chapter 2

 

_Then the image flickered, and Treville heard the sounds of battle. Metal clashed and horses neighed as officers ordered men to their deaths. He smelled blood and infection and rot. Treville understood these sounds and aromas were for him. The worst sounds he could think of. Sounds to tell him the bad thing was coming. The odors to tell him it was already too late. A new image appeared in the bowl._

The garrison again. The same tableau. But, the men, his men. “No ... No” he gasped.

To the left and standing apart from the others was a man dressed in black. His posture stiff as if it pained him to remain standing. His face still achingly beautiful, but now shrouded in misery and regret. A bloody dagger clenched in his fist. Aramis’ eyes, devoid of emotion, seemed to be staring at nothing. “His eyes, like Savoy ...” 

Porthos was now in front of the table dressed to befit his actual title of the Marquis Belgrade. This fearsome soldier now looked more like an overgrown somewhat paunchy dandy. His lips pursed as if smelling a distasteful odor. He had one hand on his money pouch and the other flipped a gold coin over and over.

Troublesome. D’Artagnan was missing leaving an empty space behind Porthos.

To the right, standing at the edge of the table, his back to the others, was Athos--his chin clean shaven, trimmed mustache, dressed in silk and lace and with a jarringly out-of-place, lovesick expression on his face. Athos looked into the distance toward a carriage waiting by the gates. Treville could just make out a hand gloved in white lace resting on the opening of the carriage window.

The image faded to black and then Treville found himself once again looking into a white stone bowl filled with rainwater.

“What in Hades ....” He fell to his knees. “When? Now? The scents ... those monsters have already done this?” he took a steadying breath. “Hecate, please. What do I do?”

When a goddess speaks, you do not hear the sound through your ears. You experience her voice rattling and vibrating through your bones. The words jar your teeth and set the beating of your heart off-kilter. Treville clenched his teeth and clutched his chest as he felt the words of Hecate.

“This thing is coming to pass. As you know, some events are immutable; however, this one is not. If left unchecked, this spell will lead to the breaking of the Blue Cloak. The Cloak must stand. It’s protection to humanity--to what it inspires humanity to become--is priceless.”

“I am sending you an ally. He is almost here. I can and will seal this space so that you are protected. Both of you will remember the way things should be. 

“You must find your men and reaffix their souls to the truth of their lives. 

“Know this my faithful one. They will not all wish to change the course of their lives. The monsters are counting on this. For they all must remember and be willing to walk in the Blue Cloak for time to realign with destiny.”

Treville opened eyes he did not remember closing. “Where do I begin?”

He moaned as the goddess spoke again.

“You and the passionate one will no longer exist in this new time. Your lack of existence is the price of protection. This will make your task that much harder, but it cannot be helped. Protection always comes at a cost.

The silence of the room was shattered by urgent pounding at the door. “Captain! Captain! I must speak with you. It is urgent. Aramis, he sent me. He’s ... Please!”

“It is coming. You must hurry, my guardian, and let him in. You will need his help in mending the suffering of the failed priest. You must make your men once again acolytes of the Blue Cloak. Then, return the priest, the warrior, and the judge to the fold where they belong. Convince them of this thing. This will not be easy my faithful servant.

“I will do what I can to keep the monsters in the city. They are victims of their own spell and will not remember what they did. That is their price. If you need me, I will, as always, be watching in the dark amongst the bones.”

Treville groaned and dragged himself up using the corner of the desk as leverage. He rubbed his chest as he set to memory Hecate’s words even as he staggered for the door, unlocked it, and pushed it open. Surprised, Treville found himself looking at d’Artagnan’s back.

Without turning, “Captain, what is that?” 

Treville looked out onto the city. In the distance, he saw a wave like those at sea only opaque and moving much to quickly. In seconds, it would be upon them. He grabbed d’Artagnan’s arm and yanked him into the room with one hand and used his other to close and bolt the door. Treville threw d’Artagnan to the floor and covered the whelp’s struggling body with his own. “Shhh. It is almost here. This will _not_ be pleasant, but do not worry. It _will be quick_.”

“Captain ...” The rest of d’Artagnan’s question was cut off by what sounded like an oncoming tornado. Both men grabbed their ears as the pressure dropped and the air was sucked out of the room. Treville was sure d’Artagnan was yelling; yet, he could hear no sound. He realized he could make no sound. He clutched the boy closer to his chest, closed his eyes, and waited for the wave to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn at the Garrison, while not hopping, is not as quiet and sleepy as d'Artagnan would have you believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd so the mistakes are mine. Paradoxes are tricky things and require a lot of lead in so the changes make sense. Please bear with me. Fingers crossed, it will all work out in the end.

Chapter 3

**Four Days Ago**

A creature of habit, d’Artagnan woke up and dressed in the dark. He quietly crept downstairs entering the kitchen from the side. D’Artagnan paused to admire the domestic scene in front of him. Already awake, Constance was wearing her third best dress, the one with the yellow flowers. She had pulled back her thick red hair into a loose bun and was working dough on the kitchen table. The muscles in her bare arms flexed as she rolled the dough out, folded it, and rolled again. Her confident hands were strong and firm. God, she was beautiful. 

Constance looked up and smiled, “Well, good morning to you, too.” 

Blushing as he realized he must have spoken out loud, d’Artagnan responded, “Uh ... good morning. How are you?”

“Well, thank you. Would you like something before you leave?” She picked up a bread towel and waved it toward the sideboard and a tray containing cheese, bread, and an apple.

d’Artagnan shook his head with a shy smile, “I’ll eat at the Garrison. Rumor is we’ll be heading out for a few days.”

“Oh,” her face fell and she looked away. “I thought ...”

“Constance,” d’Artagnan moved toward her, “Are you alright?”

She schooled her expression to her usual open and friendly one, “I was hoping that we could practice again.” Her eyes sparkled at the thought. “My husband will be gone until the end of the month. He is meeting other cloth merchants from Genoa ... to trade.” She took a small step forward.

He tilted his head toward her, “Yes, of course. As soon as I get back, I promise.” He took a step closer and kissed her cheek letting his lips linger.

It was Constance’s turn to blush, “Well, I will hold you to it.” She leaned back and smiled, “All right then. Off with you. Don’t keep them waiting. They’ll come looking for you, and I don’t need a kitchen full of swords and hats, now do I?”

“Madame,” d’Artagnan bowed, ducked the tip of the bread towel she flicked at him. Giving her one last smile, he swept out the door and into the sleepy Paris streets.

 

Not long after the rooster’s first crow, d’Artagnan strode into the courtyard. He stopped to admire the first blush of morning light, muted orange and pink, as it breached the eastern wall. This was his favorite time; the time right before things began. The Garrison was sleepy and quiet, but he smelled breakfast cooking. Serge was always up first. 

He smiled to himself when he spied Aramis and Porthos waiting in the shadow of the stairs leading up to the Captain’s office. Porthos had one hand on Aramis’ chest pinning him to the balustrade. He leaned into Aramis’ left side. Judging from Aramis’ lowered eyelids and faint flush, Porthos was whispering something highly descriptive into his ear. Aramis turned his face toward Porthos nuzzling his beard with his nose and lips. Approaching slowly, d’Artagnan cleared his throat. “Do we have a mission?” he asked.

Porthos placed one hand on the back of Aramis’ neck and leaned to Aramis’ left side to shield him from d’Artagnan’s view. To Aramis, he whispered something that sounded like, “... just breathe,” and turned to d’Artagnan completely blocking Aramis from his sight. “You’re up early.”

“You’re right out in the open,” d’Artagnan countered with a smile to show he meant no offense.

Porthos grinned, “Couldn’t help myself. Jus’ look at ‘im.” Porthos moved to the side to reveal a slightly disheveled, but still stunning, Aramis. 

“Did you even sleep last night?”

Aramis ducked his head and answered, “A bit.” 

Porthos reached over and gently tilted Aramis’ chin back up so that his face caught the morning light. He leaned to whisper into his ear. Aramis mouth relaxed into a soft smile. Whatever Porthos said, Aramis’ response was a clear, “I believe you.”

Heavy footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted their conversation.

“Good, everyone is here. We will eat breakfast while I tell you of our assignment.” Athos, all business, waved his men toward the table closest to the kitchen. “Serge! Jacques!” he yelled permanently disturbing the peace of the morning.

A silver head popped out of the kitchen doorway, “Whatcha’ yelling for? I’m trying to cook.”

“We have a mission. We need to eat before we leave.”

“Well, ye’ don’t need to shout about it. I’m right here. I’ll be out wit’ yer food in a minute.” He withdrew his head but continued to grumble about a general lack of appreciation from his boys.

“You called, sir?” Jacques, one of the stable boys, was standing at their table.

d’Artagnan always found the red-headed boy’s ability to appear seemingly out of nowhere a bit disconcerting. It did not seem to bother Athos.

“We will be away for the next four days. Please round up the other stable boys, have our horses and tacks ready to go along with supplies by the time we finish eating here.” 

“Yes, sir.” Jacques turned and ran back to the stable yelling the names of the other boys as he went.

D’Artagnan blinked at the table now covered with plates of bread, cheese, and bowls of some sort of hot oat mixture. Not for the first time, he wondered how Serge, lame and old, managed to provide food so quickly and quietly.

Athos nodded, “Good,” He turned back toward the table and continued in his clipped, cultured speech, “We are tasked with transporting a gift the King had commissioned from one of the swordmakers of Tours. We will meet him halfway between Paris and Orleans, offer payment, take possession of the item, and deliver it to the palace so the King can present it to the Duke of Buckingham at the annual masked ball. Any questions?” He raised an eyebrow and waited.

“No, I’m good,” d’Artagnan responded first beginning to assemble his plate.

“Seems straightforward enough to me,” Aramis added.

“Easy ‘nough ... what could go wrong?” Porthos asked. Porthos slid a full plate in front of Aramis and another in front of himself.

“Porthos. How many times have I told you ... never ask that,” groaned Aramis crossed himself, reached into his open shirt, and grabbed the rosary that perpetually hung around his neck.

The right side of Athos lips rose slightly as he watched the familiar exchange. D’Artagnan laughed out loud, “so superstitious.”

“It is not superstition, and I have the scars to prove it.” Aramis dropped the rosary and ran his hands roughly through his messy hair somehow managing to look even better. 

D’Artagnan noticed that Athos and Porthos were both staring openly at Aramis now their food forgotten. For his part, Aramis seemed--or chose to be--unaware of the longing looks sent his way. Not overly prone to self-reflection, d’Artagnan didn’t care if it was due to a possible lack of sleep or a general lack of Constance, but this morning he found Aramis’ inability to look anything less than appealing, annoying ... very annoying. He turned toward the marksman.

“Honestly, how do you do it?” I mean I get that you are handsome and all that,” d’Artagnan waved his hand dismissively at Aramis as if acknowledging that yes, of course, one plus one equals two, “But, when you circled the dining room last night, literally all eyes were on you, and not just the eyes of the women.” He glanced to Athos who shrugged and nodded and then to Porthos who looked of two minds: one slightly concerned and the other oddly proud.


	4. Chapter 4

Aramis, who was generally over reflective, glanced at his brothers and thought back to last night’s festivities. The king had thrown an intimate dinner party for eighty-seven of his closest friends in honor of the Duke of Buckingham’s birthday. The musketeers were assigned to the royals’ protection detail, which required them to roam the edges of the soiree as well as rotate standing near the king and queen. Well, three of them could stand by the king. It had been relayed to Athos by Treville that Aramis should keep to the Queen’s side. Athos told him that, apparently, the king was a bit threatened by the musketeer’s good looks. Aramis had laughed at that. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 _“What?_ He’s the King of France for God sakes.”

Athos almost managed to hide his smirk. “You do outshine him.”

Aramis felt himself blushing. He generally ignored comments about his looks, but when they came from someone he cared about. Well, he could feel a familiar warmth spread low in his belly. “Athos, do not start something neither of us has time to finish,” Aramis whispered looking at the guard tower over Athos’ right shoulder, conscious not to draw attention to his brother while they stood for all to see in the middle of the Garrison courtyard. When he finally dragged his eyes back to Athos’, he paused, let out a sharp breath, and whispered, “I don’t know why Porthos thinks I am the one with The Stare. Keep looking at me like that, and I will kneel to you right here. Taste you, right now.”

Breaking eye contact, Athos let out a single, quick pant. “Sadly, there is, as you say, no time. And, you do, you know.” Risking a look into Aramis’ amber-colored eyes, Athos gave him a shy smile.

“Do what?”

“Outshine him ... outshine everyone.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed toward the main gate, “Musketeers, with me.” 

Emerging from the shadows, Porthos and d’Artagnan quickly joined Aramis as he followed Athos to begin their palace security detail. Securing the room and food as well as reviewing the guest list again took several hours as did the entrances and mingling of the guests. Finally, all were seated.

The party would last through multiple courses of rich and rare delicacies as well as France’s finest game and desserts. With a slight bow, the Duke, displaying an elegant coiffure and despite having consumed a great deal of wine, began to speak sounding not the least bit tipsy. He thanked the King for throwing such a lavish affair, “Better than any I have seen anywhere else on the continent,” he assured His Majesty. Louis beamed at Buckingham like a schoolboy receiving praise from a particularly demanding tutor. The Queen patted her husband’s hand in agreement.

The Duke toasted to the skill of the chefs and the flavor of the bounty, as indicated by the hors d’oeuvres, saying it far outweighed anything found on his island home. He went on to state that although the decorations were charming, they did not hold a candle to such a lovely hostess. The Queen blushed. Aramis felt he should be jealous, and was somewhat surprised to find he was not. D’Artagnan, having recently perfected the musketeer guard duty ability to talk without moving his lips, whispered that the Duke reminded him of Aramis. He supposed it might be true from a physical standpoint--as if they could be distant cousins several times removed. 

Regardless, the Queen did look beautiful tonight. Being with child agreed with her. He wondered for the hundredth time if she regretted that night. If she wished she had waited for another to seduce her, or to be seduced, as he now realized he must have been. Moot points he knew. The deed was done, and there was nothing for it except to acknowledge that he is indeed, as Porthos keeps saying, an idiot. And, at least for now, a living idiot. Uncharacteristically, the Queen, he noted, had not once made eye contact with him. The Duke finished toasting the royals, and with a flourish sat down next to His Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu. 

Queen Anne rang the small dinner bell in front of her plate cueing the servants to begin. Several hours later and after several wine courses and the first dessert course, a decadent cream and berry tart, Aramis noticed the Cardinal’s eyes on him. Richelieu was studying Aramis allowing his gaze to roam slowly down the musketeer’s body undressing him with his eyes as he went. Although, Aramis was used to this behavior from the Cardinal, it was unnerving. The musketeer felt his muscles tense and willed them to remain still. 

He distracted himself by imagining how it would feel to implant the Queen’s golden fork into His Holiness’s left eye. He heard a soft growl at his right. He knew the sound was Athos’ way of ordering him to stand down and ignore. Richelieu’s eyes finally came to rest on Aramis’ crotch. The Cardinal seemed to flush, and his lips parted. Nauseated in a sickeningly familiar way, Aramis forced himself to look down the table toward the lesser nobles.

“Aramis, it is time to check the perimeter,” Athos’ aristocratic voice, void of emotion, commanded.

Aramis snuck a sideways glance at Athos. His brother, lips drawn into a tight line, stared at the Cardinal.

“Yes, brother. Should I send Porthos up here?”

“No,” Athos breathed out. “Why don’t you check together?” 

Aramis bowed to the King and Queen and moved to the side of the dining hall where he could look for Porthos. He found him attempting to return a small dog ... rat ... squirrel ... thing to quite possibly the oldest Barrone this side of the Channel. “Mignon, stop playing and come here this instant.” The Barrone’s voice indicated a lifetime of much wine and little water. Porthos grabbed the ‘not possibly a dog thing’ by the scruff of the neck and dropped it unceremoniously back into the Barrone’s bony lap. “There, there, Mignon,” with two twig-like fingers, she took a berry off of her dessert plate and fed it to the shivering animal. 

Porthos bowed toward the table in general, turned to Aramis, and rolled his eyes. “Come, let’s check the perimeter.” He quickly led Aramis out the closest door and into the wide hallway surounding the grand dining room.

Aramis barely contained his mirth as he walked next to the larger man, “I now know what to get you for your birthday.”

“Don’t even joke about a thing like that. Only that set would bring a rat to a fancy dinner.” Porthos shook his head as he wondered aloud, “Does having land and coin make you soft in the head?”

“I believe it can make you many things, mon chéri: daft, as in the case of the Barrone, or lecherous, as in the case of the Cardinal,” Aramis said.

Porthos noticed the slight frown on his brother’s face. His voice came out low and mean, “What ‘e do?” 

“Nothing he doesn’t do every time he sees me,” Aramis lowered his eyes.

Porthos spied his destination, a little-used hallway near the back end of the corridor. Once accessed, he nudged Aramis into a shadowed alcove at the end of the deserted hallway. He turned and took the younger man by the shoulders gently walking him backward until Aramis’ hat touched the rear wall. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like 'e ‘as the right to look at you like that ... or at all. How did he look at you?” Porthos put a hand on Aramis’ face cupping his cheek and tilting it up to make eye contact.

“Like he wanted to make me the next dessert course. God, Porthos, he does not even hide it anymore. It was in his eyes ... the flush on his skin. He was fondling the silverware as if it were my ...”

A low growl escaped Porthos lips, “He’ll never touch you. Athos says we can’t keep ‘im from ogling you. But, I swear, ‘e’ll never touch you; I won’t watch you ‘ang for his murder.”

“Porthos,” Aramis sighed with pleasure as he felt himself harden. “How is it that you can make me feel like a damsel in distress and a ruthless assassin all in the same sentence?” 

Porthos smiled wolfish and proud. He pushed a leg in between Aramis’, “Go on. I can feel you wantin’ me.” He groaned as Aramis buried his face into the crook of Porthos’ neck and began to rub himself against his powerful thigh. Unnoticed, his hat silently slid to the floor.

Aramis’ breaths came in soft, heated puffs, “I love you.” He was hard now, and he grabbed onto Porthos doublet with both hands. Aramis pushed his lips against Porthos’. He licked his tongue in and let it caress Porthos’ mouth--flicking and pressing against his tongue the way he knew Porthos liked best.

Porthos made a silent plea for more time. He groaned and broke the kiss before he could not. “I love you, too. ... Don’t spend, Aramis. ... You’ll ‘ave to wait ’til we get back to ... ah.” Aramis released one of his hands to rub its way down Porthos doublet coming to a rest on the bulge below his belly. He began to palm Porthos cock through his pants.

“Oh, I can feel you, too. ... Fill me up, now. ... Please, Porthos.” Aramis whispered into Porthos neck timing the words to match his strokes.

“God. You are amazing. So needy ... so giving ... so reckless.” Porthos syncing his words to the waves of stroke and grind, “I want you. I want to be in you. Tonight, I want you to ride me while Athos watches. Would you like that? While he watches and then takes you in his mouth and suckles you down.”

At the word ‘suckles’ Aramis bucked and moaned into Porthos mouth.

“Mmmm ... I love what that word does to ya’. But not ‘ere. We can’t, love. You know it. We can’t. I know. ... I wound you up so you’d forget that pig, and you are so perfect I let myself get carried away. ... I’m sorry, love.” Porthos gently pulled Aramis’ hand off of his cock and up to his mouth. He kissed his palm and suckled Aramis’ thumb gently letting it go with a whispered apology. Aramis stared at Porthos’ mouth his pupils wide. Porthos pressed his other hand to the back of Aramis’ neck making sure Aramis felt it against his skin. Aramis automatically closed his eyes. “That’s it, relax,” the older man said softly. 

Aramis slowed and then stopped the rocking of his hips. He quieted his mind and focused on the voice--as he always did when there was a hand at the back of his neck. His cock strained against the fabric of his pants, making him gasp out, “Porthos, I am so hard.” He brought his lips up to barely touch his lover’s.

Porthos was awed, continuously, at his ability to do this for his brothers. He gripped Aramis’ neck more firmly but not painfully. He let his voice lower and deepen until it felt like a rumble in both their chests. “Don’ worry. I won’t leave ya like this. Listen to my voice. Breathe with me. We’re just delaying, that’s all. We’ll start back, right ‘ere, at ‘ome with Athos, too. But, we can’t do that if we both don’t relax.” Their breath mingled as Porthos exhaled and Aramis inhaled--back and forth, until they were soft and able to walk unencumbered, as it were.

When they returned to their positions at the King and Queen’s sides, Aramis was surprised to see that the servants were plating the next dessert round, pound cake doused with flaming brandy and poached pairs. “Porthos did it again,” Aramis whispers to Athos. “He’s bewitched me. How can so little time have passed?”

“And, what were you doing that would take so long?” Athos queried.

“Nothing, Athos,” Aramis looked dreamily into his eyes, “Just breathing.” 

Athos nodded with recognition and felt a want growing inside him. “Did he put his hand ...”

“Oh, yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've left a few breadcrumbs here and there. For example, the current AU timeline contains magic beyond Treville's wizardry. Ordinary people display moments of magical abilities though most of them are simply unaware they possess any special traits; most people don't recognize these talents as magic because, in this world, they are so common. 
> 
> Hint: For example, the Duke of Buckingham can drink copious amounts of alcohol; yet, he remains perpetually sober and level-headed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan learns the price of physical beauty and the Musketeers being their mission.

“Oi! Ya’ can’t hold ‘is looks against ‘im. He can’t ‘elp it. He’s born that way.” Porthos cut into Aramis’ thoughts and d’Artagnan’s rantings. 

“You say it like it’s a curse,” d’Artagnan turned to Aramis. “Who would not want that?”

“D’Artagnan, it is one thing to be looked at and admired. It is quite another to be examined and coveted. Last night, I was both, and I did not enjoy it.” Aramis stood up from the table, nodded at the other two men, and headed for the stables to help ready their horses for the ride.

“What? I don’t understand?” Perplexed, d’Artagnan looked at his brothers. “He speaks as if he were a woman. Not to mention, I didn’t think he minded which side of the sheets he slept on.”

Ignoring the euphemism, Athos turned toward him making full eye contact and lowering his voice in reply. “Have you ever wondered why Aramis is continually called to the palace to do some job for His Eminence; a task any one of his priests could do? Have you ever wondered why Aramis never sees the Cardinal by himself? Why one of us always accompanies him--even the Captain if no one else is available? Have you ever wondered why Aramis does not drink as much as the rest of us? Why we do not let him, if at all possible, dine alone?”

D’Artagnan squinted his eyes away from Athos trying to identify a time he had seen Aramis when not on a mission alone among any of the many untrustworthy, low-born or high-born, in Paris. “No ...”

Porthos gave d’Artagnan an indulgent smile that did not reach his eyes. “In the Court, we had a saying. ‘You only go to bed beautiful once.’”

“I fear Aramis’ childhood was neither as uneventful as mine nor as pleasant as yours.” What he can remember of it, at least, Athos added silently.

“So, when you go everywhere with Aramis, it is not because he likes your company--not because he dislikes being alone? It’s to protect his virtue,” d’Artagnan scoffed.

“His virtue!” Porthos sputtered. “You’ve seen Aramis in a fight. He’s lethal. Aramis has no tolerance for unwanted advances. None. We go with him to protect the life of the idiot who’d try something.”

Speaking quietly, Athos added, “That includes the life of our esteemed cardinal.”

d’Artagnan felt himself pale and let out a weak, “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” Athos picked up Aramis’ untouched plate and headed toward the stables. 

Deeply chagrined, D’Artagnan started to get up to follow, but Porthos placed a hand on his wrist, “Give them a few minutes, Whelp. Don’t worry. All will be well.”

 

Athos entered the stables carrying Aramis’ plate in one hand and his own hat in the other. Coming from the far corner of the stables, Athos heard a horse nicker to the sounds of a Spanish lullaby. He headed toward the darkest part of the structure. As expected, he found Aramis singing softly while feeding his highly strung Cozette a green apple. Aramis was using his other hand to stroke the mare’s slender neck in rhythm to his song. 

“Why do you not sing lullabies and feed me apples every morning? It is plain to see you love your horse more than your brother,” Athos sulked.

Aramis smiled into Cozette’s cheek, “Please forgive me. I have been remiss. You too have always been very skittish, _mi amor_.”

Athos set the plate and hat on a hay bale and moved to stand behind Aramis. He walked slowly so as to no spook the nervous horse. Pressing his chest to Aramis’ back and resting his chin on his brother’s shoulder, he wrapped his arms around Aramis and gently squeezed.

Aramis closed his eyes and leaned back so that Athos could take a bit of his weight saying, “I’m not angry. Thankfully, our brother’s life has taught him little about the more sordid ways of the world.” He let his head roll back onto Athos’ shoulder. Athos nibbled at his ear, and Aramis felt himself go weak in the knees.

Athos laved his tongue in gentle waves against the shell of Aramis’ ear eliciting soft moans. He smiled when he felt Aramis hands come up to cover his own. His lover held on to his arms tightly. Aramis always seemed to cling in these moments as if to let go of someone who was holding him might cause them to disappear altogether. Athos squeezed more firmly and Aramis relaxed his grip just a bit. The stood like this for a few minutes savoring each other’s familiar warmth. 

Reluctantly, Aramis turned around in Athos’ arms letting their hands slide down to each other’s hips, “The stable boys will be back soon, _mi amor._ ”

Athos moved his mouth back to Aramis’ ear and kissed his way from there to his lips. Aramis parted them enough for Athos’ tongue to slip in. Athos continued the same ministrations he used on Aramis’ ear taking long, caressing strokes--promises of what might come if they were granted even a modicum of privacy when they encamped tonight.

“Athos, please. I cannot take much more teasing. I will burst,” Aramis pleaded pulling back. He kept his eyes on Athos’ mouth, and his tongue continued flicking in the corner of his mouth.

Pulling himself away just a little, Athos rested his forehead against Aramis’ and whispered, _“Te amo ... Te amo ... Te adoro ... Te amo.”_

Lifting his head, Aramis stared into Athos icy blue eye and smiled sweetly at this ritual. He whispered back, “I believe you.” 

They dropped their arms, and Athos stepped back.

As if on cue, a small herd of boys carrying full saddle bags and bedrolls stampeded into the stables. Breathlessly, Jacques spoke to Athos, “Sir, we have your supplies. We will have the horses in the courtyard in just a minute.”

Reluctantly breaking eye contact with his lover, Athos responded, “See it takes no more than five minutes.” He turns to grab his hat and the still uneaten breakfast, and heads out of the stables. Aramis gave Cozette one more pet and followed his leader into the ever brightening daylight.

 

Athos handed Aramis his plate of food, “Here, eat something. There will be no stopping until midday, and I will not tolerate complaints about hunger.”

“Yes, Athos.” Dutifully, Aramis picked up a piece of cheese and took a few half-hearted bites. He put the plate back on the table, took out his handkerchief, and wrapped the croissant up in it. When the boys brought out the horses, he shoved the wrapped bread into his saddle bag. He felt Porthos sidle next to him.

Smirking, Porthos said, “He wound you up, didn’t he?”

“I am not a toy Porthos.”

“Of course, you ain’t.” Sensing the unresolved tension, Porthos pulled off a glove and placed his hand on the back of Aramis’ neck and lowering his voice. “Just breathe. In and out.” He felt Aramis relax under the weight of his hand.

Aramis ducked his head, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Thank you.”

Porthos handed him the cheese he had left on his plate, “S’okay. Can you eat the rest of this now?”

Raising an eyebrow at Porthos, “Yes, Papa.” 

Removing his hand and replacing his glove, Porthos grinned at him and turned to check his horse. He nodded to Athos when he heard Aramis ask d’Artagnan if he would like to ride beside him for a while.

Athos allowed a small smile to escape the confines of his usually stoic face. “Aramis, d’Artagnan, you may center. Porthos take point, and I will take the rear.” The men nodded, and Athos added, “Porthos, whenever you are ready.” As Porthos led the group toward the front gate, Athos called back to Jacques, “Good job, boys. Tell Serge you deserver two helpings of dessert tonight.”

Jacques and the other boys stood a bit straighter at the rare compliment and even more rare reward. “Yes, Sir.” The boys headed _en masse_ to the kitchen calling Serge’s name loudly and repeatedly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers set up camp for the night.

Chapter 6

**Later That Evening**

 

Several years ago, Cornet had shared with Porthos his favorite spot to camp when on the main route to Orleans. It seemed the grizzled musketeer had stumbled onto the spot literally--as he swore he was quite drunk at the time--during his regular delivery of messages between the old king and the Duke of Orleans. It was a picturesque grove tucked behind a copse of trees and hidden from the main road. Porthos led the musketeers to this spot--so idyllic even a babbling brook bubbled through it. 

They set up camp for the night. Porthos watched Aramis as he peeled off most of his clothes, rolled his pant legs up, waded into the brook, and proceeded to catch a half dozen dinner-sized fish using only his hands. D’Artagnan gamely went to work readying the trout for the fire Porthos was tending. Downwind of the campfire, Athos fed and watered the horses.

Porthos always found comfort in the little camping rituals they had cultivated over the years. The brothers had settled on this familiar routine through trial and error during many musketeer missions. Porthos was proud of their Whelp. The relative newcomer, d’Artagnan, fit in seamlessly, ably prepping fish, fowl, or game leaving Aramis time to stitch clothes or skin, pray before dinner, or scout the area as needed. Today, Aramis helped Athos bring the blankets and saddlebags so that he and Athos could spread the bedrolls out around the campfire.

Porthos took the fish that d’Artagnan cleaned. He seasoned them from a secret blend he always kept in a small tin in his saddle bag. Then, he threaded them onto the branches he’d cut from a Horse Chestnut tree. He propped the sticks up over the edges of the fire so that the flames would not burn the delicate flesh. Next, he helped the youngest musketeer roll the fallen trunk of an old Lindon tree to sit perpendicular to the one Porthos had claimed. Athos filled their water canteens in the brook, and they settled around the fire awaiting their dinner. 

Porthos claimed fire and food preparation early in his first year as a musketeer. During his youth, Porthos learned to cook out of necessity. He liked his food well seasoned and free from char--two things neither Athos nor Aramis seemed to be able to manage--probably because if left to their own devices they might not even bother to eat. When Porthos deemed dinner was cooked and not a minute before, he handed Aramis the biggest Brown Trout he’d caught. Aramis, ever the gentleman and to show him there were no hard feelings, passed the fish to d’Artagnan. 

Porthos grinned at the boy’s expression. Not surprised so much as relieved, he watched d’Artagnan take the fish with a mumbled, “Thank you,” but he waited until the other men had their food before he carefully started to pull the flesh from the bones. “Porthos, this is so good.”

“Your cooking is exceptional, as usual,” Athos complimented. 

“Aren’t you in rare form today. Complimentin’ me, the stable boys. I even think I ‘eard you tellin’ the horses they did a good job. Are you feelin’ alright?” Porthos laughed at the raised eyebrow he drew from the older man.

“I always give compliments where compliments are due, Porthos,” sniffed Athos. Porthos laughed louder. His dimples deepened, and his white teeth flashed in the fading sunlight.

 

After dinner, d’Artagnan and Aramis cleaned up while Porthos continued to sit on one end of a log that faced the fire. He would never say so out loud, but one of the reasons he liked to cook was that if he timed it right, he could sit back and watch the sunset letting the others tend to the evening chores. When Aramis finished, he sat down next to Porthos not touching but close enough to feel his warmth. Porthos turned to look at him, and even though he had known Aramis for over seven years now, he felt like he was seeing him anew. 

“Aramis,” Porthos spoke so softly no one but the two of them could hear. Aramis turned toward Porthos with an expectant smile. Porthos noted the shadows and light from the flames as they danced across the marksman’s messy curls. His soft brown hair seemed tinged with gold. “Aramis,” he said it again. He knew his face was an open book right then. He could feel the love he had for this man pouring off him. “I think you are the one who is bewitching me.” 

Athos and d’Artagnan joined their brothers on the two logs. Athos on the other side of Aramis. D’Artagnan sat on the other log but only an arm’s length away. Porthos sensed Athos turning toward Aramis as well. Athos sighed, “Yes, he is and not just you, brother.”

Porthos pulled his eyes away to look at d’Artagnan who was studying the older musketeers with a skeptical look on his face, “Our Whelp seems immune to Aramis’ charms.”

“Of course he is. He loves Constance. I would hazard a guess that he looks at her the way we look at Aramis,” Porthos liked the sound of Athos cultured voice at night. He always sounded softer, warmer, more accessible somehow.

Aramis graced d’Artagnan with a sweet smile, “D’Artagnan can look at me however he likes. I am not offended nor do I need anyone other than you two to admire me. Constance is a lovely woman, d’Artagnan. You are a lucky man.”

D’Artagnan responded with a quick grin.

Porthos looked at Athos then. He knew the love in his eyes for Aramis was matched in his own. Porthos watched Aramis blush as he turned to look into Athos’ and his eyes in turn. He grabbed Porthos’ hand with one of his and Athos’ hand with the other, “I believe you,” Aramis whispered.

Porthos felt a warm glow flare up in his chest, and he saw Athos visibly flush at those three simple words. It took all of Porthos willpower to keep from pulling Aramis onto his lap--holding him, protecting him, as long as he needed. He knew Athos felt the same way.

“What does ...” d’Artagnan shook his head interrupting his thoughts. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

Aramis looked over to d’Artagnan, “You can ask me anything, brother.”

Taking a deep breath, “You say, ‘I believe you.’ the way others say, ‘I love you.’ At least, I think you do. Why? ... I mean ... I know you three have a special relationship, and I am happy that you are happy. I’ve just always wondered.” Blushing again and afraid he had overstepped, d’Artagnan looked back at the fire.

Aramis squeezed the two hands he was holding. He looked at the younger man. “Your perceive much and accept more, d’Artagnan. I believe these are skills that will serve you well in service of king and country.”

D’Artagnan lowered his eyes at Aramis’ praise. “You don’t have to answer ...”

“I do not mind you knowing, little brother,” Aramis looked into his eyes and smiled. “But, I will only speak for myself. Not to be difficult, but because my recollections of the time when it began are a bit hazy ... still.” For a moment, he looked lost.

Athos, noticing Aramis’ discomfort, added, “I was not there at the beginning as it started before Savoy, but Porthos was.” Athos moved his free hand to cover Aramis’. “Are you sure, _mi amor ___?”

Ignoring the question, “Oh, I do know the first part. It is the story of The Pirate and the Inn of the Prancing Pony, yes?” Aramis’ face was an interesting mixture of hope and confidence. “The Captain asked me to join him at an Inn I did not know, The Inn of the Prancing Pony. It was just a few streets off of the main entrance to the Court of Miracles.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tale of the Pirate and the Inn of the Prancing Pony

Chapter 7

 

Aramis’ face was an interesting mixture of hope and confidence. “About seven years ago, the Captain asked me to join him at an Inn I didn’t know, The Inn of the Prancing Pony. It was just a few streets north of the main entrance to the Court of Miracles.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Captain Treville entered the inn like he owned the place. He nodded to the barkeep and held up three fingers. The barkeep straightened his apron and immediately abandoned his other patrons to secure the distinguished-looking Blue Cloak a table near the fire. Three clean glasses and a bottle of wine appeared in front of Treville as well as a third chair set to face the door. Aramis followed his captain to the table and took the newly arrived chair. The Captain lifted both eyebrows at Aramis.

“I assume I am ensuring your continued safety, sir.” Aramis stated, “If so, I must be able to see the room. Unless, you would like me to stand at the bar ...”

“No, this is fine. You are getting better at knowing what is needed and when. The soldier becomes the musketeer.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Although Aramis always worked to ensure his posture was that of a king’s musketeer, he felt himself sit up straighter. “Sir, are you able to tell me anything about why we’re here?”

“Not yet,” Treville responded not unkindly as the barkeep set a plate of bread and cheese on the table. The Captain poured wine into all three glasses.

“Is this your regular table, then?” 

“I’ve never been here before. Have you?” Treville spied several customers glancing at Aramis. 

Aramis shook his head looking a bit embarrassed. “I don’t spend a lot of time in taverns, sir.” This was only partially true. He did not mind going alone to a tavern. He was perfectly capable of defending himself when the need arose. He did; however, avoid going out with other people. In his experience, when the inevitable happened, he would be forced to fight, to find a way to leave without being noticed, or worse ... to be humiliated and shamed into explaining what was happening. 

Musketeers, on the whole, frequented taverns with dogged regularity. So, lately, he had taken to bowing out early due to a series of mostly made-up assignations with lonely widows or neglected wives. On the nights when Marsac had duty and he was truly not meeting anyone, he would walk the dusty streets of Paris until he find himself at the thick wooden doors of a church. He would glance around to make sure he had not been followed before going in to spend the night in prayer ... alone.

The door at the entrance to the Prancing Pony creaked open interrupting Aramis’ thoughts. Aramis took note of the newest customer: a large man about his age, brown-skinned, wearing a bandana rather than a hat, scar cutting across his left eye, and a gold earring, “Sir, by chance, are you expecting a pirate?”

Treville turned toward the door and let out a soft laugh, “I suppose I am.” He waved the man over to the table and indicated the open chair, “Porthos, please sit down.”

Porthos, eyed the blue cloaks and looked a bit uncomfortable being so near two musketeers. It did not make him feel better that neither man actually looked like a model soldier to him. The captain, probably a noble, held an expression that would not be out of place on an attack dog--happy to be with his family and just as happy to tear out the throat of anyone else. The younger one’s lothario good looks would be more at home in a brothel or running a long con on a rich mark. He cautiously sat down moving his chair a bit toward the handsome musketeer so that he could have a better view of the other customers.

“Porthos, this is Aramis,” Treville said passing out the glasses of wine. He held his up, “To a fruitful conversation.” The other two men joined his toast. Porthos downed his wine in one swallow, Treville took a drink, Aramis barely wet his lips while continuing to scan the room.

Aramis’ mother, an angelically beautiful woman in her own right, taught Aramis when he was young to never hold eye contact for more than a few seconds with anyone he did not intend to know better--biblically better. To do so was to invite trouble and shame. 

When he first met Marsac, he refused to look directly at him when they sparred. Aramis did this with everyone. However, Marsac was the first one to call him out saying, “If you don’t respect me enough as an opponent to look at me, fight with someone else.” He turned and walked away. That night, Aramis bought the most expensive bottle of wine he could afford, which was one step up from cheap, and knocked on Marsac’s door. He forced himself to look into Marsac’s eyes until Marsac invited him in. They stayed up talking until well past midnight and fell asleep fully clothed on Marsac’s bed. In the morning, the men woke to find their fingers still intertwined. They had been secretly together since that night.

Aramis’ eyes bounced quickly from patron to patron. He had, with Marsac’s help, trained himself to take in as much as possible about a person in a few seconds and continue to the next. After two or three passes, he had a working knowledge of the room: three Red Capes tired from parade duty seated by the door, a half a dozen day workers well into their cups lounging by the bar, merchants in groups of two and three filling most of the other tables, two pretty barmaids working the room to drum up sales of wine and food, and some men purposely staying out of sight against the two walls furthest from the firelight. He made special note of their number and location. 

Treville refilled Porthos’ glass. “Have you given my offer any thought?” 

“Look, I get that my saving you from Irish Pierre was impressive and all that,” Porthos flashed him a smile bringing his dimples into view, “But, I don’t think that being good in a scrap is the makings of one of you lot.” 

Aramis thought he saw a glimmer of hope in Porthos’ eyes even as he seemed to dismiss the idea of joining their ranks. “Well, we do seem to attract a lot of fights.” Aramis flicked his eyes at his captain who managed to look both amused and annoyed. “Although, most of my encounters involve sword and gun.”

“I have no trainin’ with those.” Porthos expression closed off.

“Using weapons is a skill. Skills can be taught if the student is willing.” Treville finished his glass of wine and Aramis refilled it for him. “It wouldn’t be easy for you I imagine and not just because you lack soldiering.”

Porthos voice tightened, “Not many mongrels, then?”

“Do not call yourself that.” Aramis’ voice was sharp and his eyes narrowed in challenge to the look of defiance on Porthos’ face. “If you choose to join us, you will become my brother. My brothers are _not_ mongrels.” Aramis held the larger man’s stare.

Treville smiled. Aside from seeing Aramis’ face in connection with Porthos’ when he gazed into his crystal ball, this was one of the reasons why he brought Aramis with him. Aramis would allow himself to be backed against the edge of a cliff if it meant protecting his own ... defending his own. This was the definition of a musketeer to Treville.

For his part, Porthos thought he should probably be angry, but he found he was not. He was actually a bit impressed. Few men could withstand his glare, and this one seemed resolute in his beliefs about his brothers and fearless regardless of the damage Porthos could do. Since he’d arrived, Porthos had been focused on Captain Treville. For the first time, he really looked at Aramis. He was not just handsome, he realized. He was beautiful like one of the statues of the Greek gods he had seen around Paris. Nonplussed, Porthos was fairly certain he had never thought of a man in those terms before. 

Aramis was tall and dark, probably some Spanish or Portuguese blood, his curly hair was long and tied back at his neck with a piece of leather that matched his pauldron. Porthos inwardly smiled as he was fairly certain this was on purpose. He observed Aramis’ fingers were slender, but calloused from weapon use he supposed. 

Aramis was on the thin side and seemed a bit young for a musketeer. Porthos was a bit unsettled when he realized he wanted to protect him and to make sure he was eating and sleeping right. That last thought was so disconcerting he broke eye contact first with a shake of his head. To cover his odd train of thought, he reached for the plate of food and tore off a chunk of bread. He then quietly nudged the plate in front of Aramis.

Not much escaped the Captain, and he did not miss Porthos sliding the plate to Aramis. This was the other reason Treville chose to bring him tonight. Aramis brought out the mother hen in most people with whom he spent time. He’d seen battle-tested soldiers in the middle of winter try to give Aramis their scarves and gloves as he protested that he had his own. Even old Serge was not immune. He always made a plate of food for Aramis while the other men had to scoop their own. Serge would wave away Aramis’ comments that he could serve himself with a remark about how skinny Aramis was and that he would get sick if he didn’t put some meat on his bones. Aramis would smile fondly at Serge and take the plate.

He occasionally wondered if this was why Aramis did not seem to have many close friends aside from Marsac. Aramis was popular with the men and entertaining with his many stories, some real some not, but only Marsac had shown any true friendship toward Aramis. He joined him for breakfast every day he could. They sparred together, and they even traded duties so they worked the palace at the same time. Marsac did not seem to mind being in Aramis’ shadow; although, like Aramis himself probably thought, Marsac was a great musketeer in his own right--very few could throw a dagger with such accuracy for one. 

With most others, he supposed the way Aramis looked got in the way. He imagined it might be intimidating to him if he were a younger man. Now, interestingly, although Aramis generally refused the items offered him, he accepted the plate from Porthos and broke off a piece of cheese.

Aramis felt himself begin to blush under Porthos’ and Treville’s scrutiny. He attempting to deflect their attentions, “Who is Irish Pierre?”

“A red-headed snake who steals from anyone regardless of the kind of attention in might bring down on all of us. I’m not even sure he is Irish. I heard tell his mother was actually Scottish.” For some reason, this thought tickled Porthos, and let out a deep laugh flashing teeth and dimples at the other two men. This drew a shy smile out of Aramis much to Porthos’ secret delight.

Treville began to speak. ‘Well, to make a long story short, Yes, this morning I came upon Irish, or Scottish, Pierre just a bit south of here. He and his associates were in the process of robbing a merchant and his family. I intervened and managed to halt the robbery, but while I was helping the merchant’s wife up from the dirt, I failed to see Pierre grab a bystander as a shield while three of his men emerged from the crowd behind me. Porthos, here, came out of nowhere knocked Pierre’s human shield out of the way, tackled the snake to the ground with a well-aimed knee to the groin, and proceeded to engage the other three. The fight was over quickly, and he hardly seemed to break a sweat. It occurred to me that a man with the ability to emerge from the shadows coupled with unexpectedly unusual hand-to-hand fighting skills like that could go far in the Musketeers.”

Aramis nodded in agreement. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand out. People were staring at him, again. He distracted himself by putting his attention on Porthos. He did look like a pirate. He also looked like he could tear someone limb from limb if he wanted. His eyes gave him away, though. He didn’t want to be seen as a brute. He looked hungry to Aramis. Hungry for more than what he had. Hungry for a life where he could prove himself worthy. Hungry to know things, see things, do things beyond his current circumstances. Aramis understood that. He had seen that look in his own eyes often enough.

Treville realized Aramis looked a bit uncomfortable. His eyes fluttered around the room studiously avoiding eye contact. Treville also studied the room. The patrons who had been glancing Aramis’ way earlier were now outright ogling him. Some of them flushed with wine and what was that? Lust? Treville instinctively reached for his main gauche.

Aramis held out a hand, “Sir, please. It’s not worth it.” 

Porthos watched the captain quietly pull his dagger so he glanced nonchalantly around the room and noticed that some of the lowlifes were staring at their table specifically at Aramis. They looked at him the way the dandies look at the prostitutes who troll for a quick jump near the back entrance to the Court. He growled and flicked his chin up. Several men emerged from the shadows and moved around the outskirts of the table effectively blocking prying eyes. Porthos than looked at Treville who nodded at him and relaxed. He realized Treville already saw him as a musketeer. The man already trusted him. However, when he looked at Aramis, he was taken aback.

Aramis lowered his eyes in shame, “Please, I’m not worth it. Don’t start anything.”

“First of all, I’d be finishin’ it not startin’ it. Second, no one ogles one of _my_ brothers unless ‘e’s invitin’ it ‘imself ... Are ya? Invitin’ it, I mean.”

Aramis let out a bitter sigh, “No, I am not inviting anything. I’m just sitting here. I’m always just sitting here.” Aramis’ tone grew more frustrated with each word and then he calmed, “Wait ... did you say _brother_?

His friend, Flea, always said, ‘Sometimes, you just have to close your eyes and jump.’ Porthos took a deep breath and nodded. 

There was a touch of wonder in Aramis’ eyes as he looked at Porthos’ profile silhouetted against the flickering fireplace light, “I believe you.” 

Treville acknowledge Porthos’ nod with a quick tilt of his own as if he had known the outcome this morning when he offered Porthos the chance to join them. Really, he hadn’t know until later in the day when he saw Porthos in uniform as he was gazing into his crystal ball--but he is the only one who needs to know that. In the crystal, he had seen Porthos’ blue cloak fluttering behind him as he strode into the Garrison with Aramis and another new recruit--a familiar-looking nobleman with a scar on his upper lip. 

The Captain stood up commanding the attention of the two men at the table. “Good. Be at the Garrison bright and early on Monday morning. Aramis will meet you and get you outfitted for training. Bring what you need. Cadets stay in the Garrison’s barracks.” He held out his hand to Porthos who shook it. “Aramis, with me.”

Aramis stood up to follow his captain, but before he left, he paused. He did not know what possessed him to stop. He turned to Porthos and locked eyes, directing all of his attention on him, and lowering his voice a bit, “See you on Monday, _brother._ ”

For several moments, Porthos was mesmerized by the musketeer’s stare. He became lost in Aramis’ dark, soulful eyes. He felt ... gently held, and he felt his heart constrict in his chest. His cock twitched. He managed a weak nod. 

Aramis seemed reluctant to break eye contact as well. He knew his pupils were dilated by the way the light hurt his eyes. He forced himself to look at the retreating figure of his Captain. He turned toward the door and began walking.

Once the Blue Cloaks left the Inn, Porthos slowly exhaled, “Damn.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think of the story so far.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pirate and The Musketeer Who Lost His Way

Chapter 8

 

Aramis ended his story and he looked expectantly at Porthos.

Porthos smiled indulgently at Aramis, “Well, the conversation lasted a bit longer’en Aramis described. But, yes, essentially that was it. I met’m on a Friday night and was a Musketeer cadet on Monday. Was the best decision I ever made.”

“I don’t see how that answers ... Oh, there’s more isn’t there?” d’Artagnan blushed again.

Aramis, still holding Porthos’ and Athos’ hands, rotated them in turn to reveal their inner wrists. He kissed each wrist softly with his mouth slightly opened his tongue wet, and released it. He moved to sit on the flat stone beside d’Artagnan’s feet. The rock, warmed by the fire, was surprisingly comfortable. Aramis leaned sideways distributing his weight between d’Artagnan’s calf and the log.

Athos looked at him. To his eyes, Aramis looked hesitant even a bit nervous, “Brother?”

“I’m fine. The next parts of the story are mostly that to me ... a story. I like to see your faces when you tell it.” 

Porthos glanced at d’Artagnan who was looking down at Aramis; although, he couldn’t see his face. He moved so he would not give himself away, thought Porthos. Aramis would rather let the story do that for him. He glanced at Athos who seemed to have come to the same conclusion. 

Athos moved closer to Porthos and leaned in kissing him softly, open-mouthed, and so familiar. This was his way of lending Porthos some of his strength to tell the next part. Athos broke the kiss but took Porthos’ hand for good measure.

D’Artagnan decided he liked the way they looked when they kissed--not like musketeers but rather two souls deeply in love.

“I am not yet in this story as the next part is about Savoy.” Athos looked at d’Artagnan, “I think Aramis already told you all that he remembers of that night. So, I believe this is Porthos’ part to tell.” 

“What do you mean ‘all that he remembers’? Aramis described a bit of the battle and Marsac’s role to me. That’s all. I’m sure it’s a much longer story.” D’Artagnan looked down toward Aramis. “Aramis?”

“Whelp, don’t. ‘e told you all ‘e knows. Anythin’ else would be what he imagines might have happened not necessarily what did.” Porthos caught Aramis’ eye and waits. 

Aramis ducked his head. “It will make more sense soon, d’Artagnan, I promise.” 

Aramis voice drifted up to d’Artagnan who looked down toward him and was surprised to find his fingers loosely resting in Aramis’ curls. When did I do that? Why did I do that? Before he could continue this train of thought, Porthos began his story. 

“I call this one, The Pirate and The Musketeer Who Lost His Way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Garrison was bustling. A rider, dusty and disheveled, thundered into the courtyard. The rider pulled the reins so hard to get the horse to stop that she reared up on her hind legs almost knocking him to the ground. He expertly regained control and dismounted quickly, “I need a Captain Treville! I have an urgent message for the Captain of the Garrison! Captain Treville!”

Porthos watched the early morning commotion while eating breakfast with the other cadets. Most of the commissioned musketeers were on a training exercise near Turin in Savoy. He noticed Treville, his face fixed, was already walking down his office stairs. Porthos thought that odd. He would of had to have heard the rider even before he entered the Garrison.

Porthos startled and quickly recovered when he saw the Captain’s face. The Captain’s frozen expression was not foreign to Porthos. He had the same look Charon had right after Porthos’ mother died. Porthos thought he must have been just five. Charon and Porthos were sitting in the dirt outside of a makeshift tent. Charon was holding Porthos’ hand, and he stiffened when Flea emerged from the tent’s entrance. Before Flea spoke, Charon squeezed Porthos’ hand hard enough to make Porthos flinch. Porthos turned to look in his eyes as Charon said, “I’m sorry.”

The Captain looked like Charon had as he spoke, like he was steeling himself to hear truly horrible news--news he already knew but no one had dared speak aloud. 

“I’m Treville. What is the meaning of all this?” The Captain attempted to bluster, but his voice was forced and filled with dread.

Still a bit breathless, the young rider began, “Sir, a man, bloodied wearing no coat against the snowy weather, walked into our village several days ago. He gave me some weapons as payment for delivering a message to you.”

“Well, spit it out man! What is the message!”

The early morning noise and bustle of the Garrison came to a sudden stop. Porthos gently laid down his fork and pushed himself up from the table. His mind stilled to match the Garrison’s sudden silence. His thoughts were for Aramis and Marsac, Bouchier, LaBeau, and Drambere. He had only met them a few months ago, but he considered them friends.

“Sorry, sir. The message is: Your Blue Cloaks, twenty of them, our brothers, are dead in Savoy. We were attacked in our sleep. We were slaughtered. Massacred.” The man exhaled and glanced nervously around the courtyard. He lowered his eyes as though he just now understood the magnitude of his message.

Porthos’ mind settled on one name, Aramis. God, he can’t be ... No. He felt it in his heart when his mother died. He knew when Grandmere Marie died even though Flea didn’t find her body for a week. Aramis was not dead. He was not. Porthos stood and walked toward the Captain.

Treville looked at the messenger, “What weapons?”

“Sir?”

“What weapons? You said the man who gave you the message paid with weapons. Where are they? Let me see them,” he commanded.

The messenger went into his saddle bag and pulled out a torn and stained blue cloth and unwrapped several expensive throwing knives. The kind used by someone who understood the value of a well-made blade. 

Porthos arrived at the Captain’s side and studied the knives. “There is a nick in the handle. Those are Marsac’s. He had me clean them just last week.” Porthos eyed his Captain but spoke to the messenger. “Was the man alive when you left him?”

The messenger had the good sense to know the answer to this question would not be a popular one so he hesitated for a moment. Then slowly, “He traded his pistols for one of my father’s best horses and headed out on the East Road toward Milan.” 

“He deserted?” Porthos, incredulous, looked to Treville for guidance.

Treville closed his eyes, “Was he alone?”

Porthos startled and turned toward him his face flushed, “Captain, you don’t think Aramis ... ?” Treville opened his eyes and looked at Porthos.

“He was alone.” The messenger added quickly. “There was no one else with him.”

Treville seemed to come fully alive then. He began barking orders to the cadets, the few musketeers still at the Garrison who did not have duty at the Palace, the stable boys, and at Serge. Lastly, he turned toward the messenger, “You will lead us back to retrieve our fallen brothers.” It was not a request, and the rider sighed tiredly and nodded.

 

Two weeks later, several squads of the remaining musketeers and cadets slowly creaked toward Paris pulling two carts--one laden down with the blue, cloak-wrapped bodies of twenty of the King’s finest musketeers and one cart driven by Serge himself containing Porthos and one of the only two survivors of the massacre, Aramis. Marsac, nowhere to be found and assumed long gone, had been labeled a deserter to be hanged on sight.

Porthos was relieved when the wind shifted and he detected the foul odors of the only city he had ever known. Caring for Aramis was not difficult in that he had been unconscious for most of the ride only waking a few times a day for an hour or so. Physically, aside from a deep and troublesome head wound, he was remarkably unscathed. Mentally, Porthos was worried. Very worried. He has seen many head wounds during his days in the Court. 

Some of the victims survived with seemingly no ill effects. Some woke up talking only to die a few hours later. Some were reduced to little more than vegetables to be put out of their misery by a merciful friend or stranger. Some changed in minor or major ways--these were all unique. He had seen a women who did not recognize her own children but played with them and talked as if she were their age. Remy, an expert pickpocket who had been caught and pistol whipped starved to death a few winters ago because he forgot how to work his nimble fingers and could not seem to relearn that skill or any other.

So far, every time Aramis woke up he asked the same questions: Where am I? Where is Marsac? Why did he leave me? Will you take me to my Captain? Sometimes, he would add in a comment about Porthos looking like a pirate, but he never once called Porthos by his name. If he stayed awake for a bit, Porthos would ask questions of his own: How does your head feel? Do you know what day it was? Did you remember being under attack? The only answer that ever made sense was to his first question, “It hurts.”

After a day in the cart, Porthos was convinced Aramis had been hit too hard with the butt of a pistol to his left temple. He had a serious concussion, and he had holes in his memory--significant holes. After going through the round of questions, Porthos would ask, “Do you know me?”

Aramis would pause a moment, his eyes looking up and to the right, then a small but triumphant smile, “You are the pirate, yes? My Captain knows you. You are my handsome pirate, and you ride a dancing horse.” Porthos may have blushed a bit at the handsome part.

It took Porthos well into the evening to figure out Aramis was talking about the Inn of the Prancing Pony. Captain Treville filled in the pirate connection on one of his visits to the cart to give Porthos a chance to eat and get some fresh air. After that, Porthos made sure to have his bandana tied over his head and his gold earring showing. This visual cue seemed to help Aramis remember that he knew Porthos. It seemed to give him some small sense of security. That and Porthos’ hand, which Aramis grasped each time he remembered the big man was his pirate.

On the second day in the wagon, Porthos realized it wasn’t coincidence; Aramis was soothed by touch. If he became restless at night and Porthos placed his open hand on Aramis’ chest, Aramis calmed. If Aramis refused to drink water or broth, Porthos raised his head a bit by palming the back of Aramis’ neck and lifting. Aramis would sigh and drink whatever Porthos offered him. If Aramis cried, Porthos cupped his face with both hands and brushed the tears away with his thumbs. Aramis would lower his eyes and look at Porthos through long, wet lashes; distracted, Porthos would find his hands had drifted into Aramis’ hair. Once after a particularly long cry, Aramis took Porthos’ breath away by sorrowfully kissing his palms in thanks for staying with him in the cart. 

Still, Aramis was asleep more than he was awake 

When they arrived at the Garrison, Porthos lifted a sleeping Aramis out of the cart and carried him in his arms. His bandaged head steadied on Porthos broad shoulder. They followed Treville to Aramis’ quarters. Aramis woke up as Porthos gently laid him down in his own bed. He looked disinterestedly around the room. Then, he reached a hand to Porthos’ cheek giving it a soft caress before letting it fall back down, “My pirate,” he whispered and fell back asleep.

“Porthos,” Captain Treville spoke with a touch to the cadet’s sleeve. “I have no right to ask, but ... “

“Of course. I’ll stay with ‘im.” Porthos’ need to protect Aramis was in full swing. He couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. 

The captain seemed to understand, “Good man.”

 

The King sent Dr. Lemay, his personal physician, to check on Aramis. Treville was pleased the King had cared enough to send the young doctor. When Lemay arrived at the Garrison, Treville walked him to Aramis’ room. Treville found himself admiring the young man. Lemay was tall, slender, and his expression showed how eager he was to see his patient. Treville opened the door for him and confidently looked Lemay in the eye even though he had to raise his head to do it. Lemay took in a sharp breath and blushed. The moment was soon broken when they both heard the thrashing and moaning emanating from inside the room.

They entered to find Porthos kneeling on the bed next to Aramis. Porthos large hand was restraining Aramis, and he was talking to him. The words sounded nonsensical, but Aramis did seem to be relaxing a bit. Lemay introduced himself to Porthos, and asked if he would be so kind as to warm some water by the fire. Porthos reluctantly climbed off the bed to place the rain pitcher on the hearth, and Lemay took his spot in preparation.

Neither Porthos nor Treville had never seen anything like the exam Lemay performed. He introduced himself to Aramis; although, Aramis did not seem to see him. Then, Lemay got right to work. The doctor straddled Aramis and rubbed his hands together briskly to generate warmth. He opened Aramis’s shirt and gently laid his hands on either side of Aramis’ heart. Lemay closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Aramis, who had been restless and uncomfortable all morning, quieted. In fact, the two of them were so still Porthos was tempted to poke’em both. 

Treville was spellbound at the sight of the two men frozen on the bed. _Much later, when Treville would confess to Lemay that the image of him straddling Aramis was compellingly erotic and burned forever into his memory, Lemay would blush and straddle Treville placing his hands on Treville’s chest, “Like this?”_

Lemay balanced over Aramis’ thighs for almost a quarter of an hour. Finally, Lemay opened his eyes and thanked Aramis for his patience. Aramis’ eyes flitted over Lemay and bounced around the room taking in everything and nothing. Lemay climbed off of Aramis and his bed. 

“From the neck down, he is mostly healed. He had bruised ribs and his wrist was strained from someone grabbing it and pulling him a fair distance. Those are healing nicely. He feels cold inside probably due to the exposure. Patients I have treated who have undergone time unprotected in the elements tend to feel the cold or heat more intensely than the rest of us. That may be permanent.” 

Lemay paused and sighed. His eyes so eager before now seemed strained and tired. Treville offered him a glass of the warmed water. Lemay gratefully drank it down in one swallow. “Aramis is deeply concussed. The blow to his head seems to have affected his recall both in drawing out old memories and in making new ones. The permanence of this injury is impossible to determine. I am sorry. He may never be the man he was.” He paused to let his words sink in to Treville and Porthos.

Lemay concluded that Aramis was best left where he was in hopes that the familiar would jog his memory. He left some herbs for a tea to soothe any headache pain and orders to keep him calm and to encourage him to talk. Specifically, to share any memories of anything he could. He advised Porthos and Treville to commit any of Aramis’ stories to memory or paper so that they could recite them back to Aramis in case he didn’t remember them later.

Lemay added, “You will have to be incredibly patient with him. You will all be frustrated by this. Just remember, he is not doing it on purpose. As long as he keeps trying, there is a chance he will regain some to most of what has been lost.”

The Captain and Porthos promised to follow the doctor’s instructions. Treville offered to show Lemay the Garrison as he escorted him out of Aramis’ room. Lemay tilted his head with a smile, and they left Porthos and Aramis alone again.

Porthos looked at Aramis now sleeping peacefully on his side facing the hearth. Porthos sighed at the false glow the fire gave Aramis’ pale face. He sat down on the edge of the bed and smiled as Aramis curled around his body drawn to the closeness of Porthos warmth. Porthos wrapped a protective arm around Aramis’ back, and for what seemed like the hundredth time since hearing that the musketeer had deserted, he cursed Marsac.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 

Over the next few weeks, as Aramis remained awake longer and longer each day, the holes in his memory began to define themselves.

Every day Porthos would ask him questions: When did you become a soldier? Are your parents still alive? Are you as good with a dagger as you are a musket? When did you learn to care for horses? and dozens more. He would ask until Aramis visibly frustrated, and then he would smile at Aramis and compliment his efforts, his looks, his hair ... anything ... to soothe him. If that did not work, he would tell a story of his own the same one as yesterday and probably tomorrow as well. 

Inevitably, Aramis would reach for his hand, softly saying, “My Pirate.” And, they would start again, or Porthos would get food and drink. Sometimes, Aramis would play cards with him. Aramis remembered how many cards each player received and how to bet, but he couldn’t seem to remember what made a good hand or how to win the game. This did not trouble Porthos overmuch. Aramis hadn’t very good at cards before Savoy.

Aramis had always been a scholar at heart and a voracious reader. This part of him seemed strong. He could quote whole passages of the Bible or other texts he had read; yet, he couldn’t recall when he joined the musketeers or how it was that he came to Paris. Treville patiently explained this part to Aramis each evening when he gave Porthos an hour’s respite to eat dinner with the other cadets. 

Aramis had no memory of his birthplace, but he did remember that his father distilled brandy. He remembered a lovely honey-haired farm girl named Isabelle who let Aramis lie with her in her father’s barn. He remembered winning a shooting match while still in the regular army earning his title of sharpshooter. He knows he had not been old enough to grow a beard. He doesn’t know how old he is now. Nor does he know how long he has lived in Paris. Treville filled in these blanks daily as well.

Aramis remembered bringing Marsac a bottle of wine and how he opened himself up to the doe-eyed musketeer. He remembered Marsac’s stories of his horrible childhood much better and in more detail than he does his own. Porthos became an expert at identifying the memories that belonged to Aramis.

He knew Treville as _My Captain,_ and only called him by his title. Everyday, Porthos told him his name; yet, Aramis never called him anything but _My Pirate._ The possessiveness of his names for them seemed very important to Aramis so they smiled and nodded when he said them.

Before Savoy, Porthos had been building a friendship with Aramis, and to a lesser extent Marsac. Truth be told, he hadn’t known them that long or that well. Aramis had shown Porthos around when he arrive at the Garrison. Marsac and he sparred with Porthos everyday. Marsac worked with him on his footwork Aramis on his aim. They took him to the tavern with them. Marsac always careful to choose tables in darker corners and to ensure Aramis never sat facing the room. They would even play cards with him until they learned not to.

Now, Porthos must watch Aramis. He must anticipate bad moments and hours and nights. He needed to keep him safe to bring him back, and he had no idea how to do that aside from following Lemay’s instructions and memorizing Aramis’ stories.

Sometimes, Porthos thought it odd that he knew much more of Aramis through his fractured memories than Aramis knew of himself or Porthos for that matter; although, this did not seem to bother Aramis.

For the most part, Aramis was fairly good-natured about his predicament. He seemed to have accepted that it was what it was. Porthos wondered if this was because he has know idea how much of himself he had truly lost. However, Aramis _was_ resistant to leaving his room. Neither Porthos nor Treville have been able to persuade him to go outside. This development had them worried. Porthos was at a loss on how to convince Aramis to leave the relative safety of the only space he has known for almost a month now.

On the other hand, Porthos, a man who’d grown up on the streets of Paris and in the Court of Miracles, felt himself chafing at the confinement of Aramis’ room. His muscles felt disused. He longed to go outside during the daylight. He wanted to walk along the Seine, explore new taverns, go to the market ... anything away from the Garrison. He would willingly stand a few parades to get a break in the chilly spring air. He also realized he did not want to do all of these things alone. He wanted to do all of these things with Aramis. He knew he was getting frustrated and tired of feeling so out of his depth.

Because of this, Porthos stumbled sometimes. _He_ forgot sometimes. Today, Porthos opened the door to air out the room and said, “Maybe we could eat dinner tonight in the kitchen. Serge wouldn’t mind the company, and it’s warm in there.”

Aramis felt His Pirate’s restlessness increasing. He knew he stayed with him because he cared about him. He wished he could remember exactly why. He should ask him. He vaguely wondered if he already did. Regardless, he doesn’t think His Pirate’s compassion was a bottomless well, and this scared him. 

Marsac said he loved him and left. He remembered that plain as day. Marsac turned his back on Aramis and walked away in the snow. Aramis’ memory of Marsac, his clothes stained with his opponents’ blood but basically unharmed as always as Marsac rarely received more than a scratch or two in any fight, was quite clear. 

Sometime during the night of the ambush, Marsac dragged him by his hand out of the battle and propped him up against a tree. His long fingers cleaned his head wound with handfuls of freshly fallen snow. Hastily torn strips of cloth ripped from Marsac’s own shirt were wound around his head and tied off. More snow to wipe the blood out of Aramis’ eyes. Marsac held him tightly burying his face in Aramis’ neck to muffle his cries. In the morning, Marsac told him he loved him saying, “I can’t do this anymore.” He tore off his pauldron, turned, and walked away. 

“You’re lying. That’s not what love means,” Aramis whispered over and over for no one to hear but the crows.

Aramis didn’t want His Pirate to leave. He wanted to please him. Thank him for the things he’s done even if he was sure he could never begin to list them all.

Nervously, Aramis walked toward the open door and looked out at the last of the melting snow. He spied the crows perched on the balustrade. Big, black oily-eyed creatures. Pecking creatures. Ripping flesh from bone, eye-from-socket creatures. He knew he was imagining it, but he smelled blood. The air was thick with it. The room began to sway.

Porthos sensed Aramis moving and freezing. He turned to see the color drain from Aramis’ face, and his run to the chamber pot. He barely made it in time--vomited his lunch and dry heaved for the better part of an hour. Porthos held his hair back, and when he was done, he brought him water to rinse his mouth, “I’m so sorry Aramis. It’s my fault. I didn’t think. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Aramis blinked rapidly lost in the woods again, “Please, I don’t want to go out there. Please close the door. Promise me you will keep the crows out. You can use my pistols. Don’t let them peck you.”

Porthos felt like he was the one stumbling, lost in the trees. He pulled Aramis up and carried him to his bed.

“Please, I don’t want to be here alone,” Aramis begged into the late afternoon shadows. 

Porthos cleaned the chamber pot, stoked the fire, and sat on the bed. He’s afraid he’s made this worse--caused more harm than good. He closed his eyes tightly. A thought unbidden came to him as well. _Aramis doesn’t remember everything about Savoy maybe not even half of it, and he reacts like this. What if he hadn’t lost his memory? What if ... Maybe it is a blessing he is damaged like this._ He felt the tears there rising to the surface riding a wave of guilt for that last thought.

He’s not cried since his mother died. _Please,_ he thought. _I need someone to help me. To help Aramis. The Captain is so busy. I don’t think I can do this alone._ He blinks. The tears begin to fall in silent sorrow not sobs, but his cheeks were wet nonetheless.

“My Pir ... “ Aramis stopped, took a breath, and tried again. “My ... Porthos?”

Porthos turned slowly to Aramis sure that he imagined hearing his name. He found himself looking directly into Aramis face with Aramis’ eyes full open and _on_ him. Porthos froze afraid to breathe in case he imagined this. He was drawn in once again by Aramis’ eyes. He forgot his desire to leave. He forgot his despair. Warmth spread through his body, and he felt safely held in Aramis’ gaze. 

“Don’t cry. It will be all right or as all right as it can be. Please don’t cry.” Intuiting Porthos would rather not be watched as he wept, Aramis moved to kneel behind him. He cradled Porthos’ back against his chest and hooked his chin over Porthos’ shoulder pressing his dry cheek against Porthos’ wet one. 

Porthos felt Aramis’ eyelashes fluttering against his temple, and he covered Aramis’ arms with his own holding him tightly. The tears continued to fall. He thought now they might not just be for his frustration and guilt. They might be for his lost mother, for the father he never knew, for the compassion Aramis was showing him right now even though he practically wished his damaged brain on him. 

He felt he was being emptied out--a terrifying thought. One he wasn’t sure he could endure except for Aramis’ warm chest heavy against his back. His arms held on tight. Relieved again that Aramis has not forgotten his compassionate nature--not forgotten his core.

Aramis pulled them both back onto the bed. He pressed himself against Porthos back. Porthos faced the orange sparks and blue flames of the fire and let the rest of his sorrow go. He clung to Aramis’ arms as the sobs came racking his body. Aramis held onto him and whispered prayers, psalms, and maybe some Spanish nursery rhymes into Porthos’ ear calming him. Aramis lips occasionally dropped and grazed the gold earring hanging there, but they always returned to continue his murmuring. After a time, the sobbing stopped, hitching breath evened out, and they fell asleep to the sounds of the crackling fire. 

At twilight, Porthos woke up exhausted. He felt a bit too warm. The fire, recently stoked, was blazing. He stretched out his arms and legs. His stomach dropped when he realized the bed was empty and so was the room.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unaware they are doing so, Porthos and Aramis form the beginnings of The Inseparables.

Chapter 10

 

Porthos staggered out of bed calling out for Aramis his voice still rough with sleep. He forced his right foot into his boot while hopping around looking for the left one and trying to remember to breathe. Once found under the table, he put the boot on and headed for the door. He felt his chest constricting in fear as he pulled the door open and thought, ‘Where is he? How could I have fallen asleep?’ 

He jumped back when he realized someone was standing in the doorway. Actually, there were three men standing in the shadows, and they seemed to be bearing gifts. Gifts that smelled like stew and freshly baked bread. Porthos breathed a sigh of relief, “Aramis. When I woke up an’ you were gone ...”

“My Pirate ... Porthos ... Please forgive me. I thought you might be hungry when you awoke so I went to the kitchen for food ... Serge and ... Cornet offered to help carry the food and wine back here.” Aramis nodded toward the older musketeers still standing in the doorway. Porthos noticed he’d remembered their names.

Porthos took a calming breath and smiled, “I am hungry. Sorry, come in. You can put it down on the table,” Porthos added gesturing toward the small wooden table and chairs tucked into the corner of the room. He turned back to look at Aramis. He was standing ramrod straight. He had a smile on his face, though it did not quite reach his eyes, which looked strained and tired. He was pale, but he looked determined. He looked strong. Porthos was reminded of the first time he really looked at him on the night they met at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. He looked proud.

Serge and Cornet laid the food and wine--clinking with the two glasses carefully balanced over the neck of the bottle--on the table. Serge fished out forks and even some clean napkins from his apron pocket. He spread those out as well.

Serge looked fondly at Aramis, “We were so pleased to see ‘im out and about. ‘e asked if ‘e could take dinner back up here so we thought we’d ‘elp ‘im.”

“Yes,” Cornet added, “We’d a been here sooner, but all these doors up here look the same in the dark of the new moon. Ya know?” He threw a concerned look over Aramis’ head to Porthos. Adding in silently, _He wasn’t sure which one was his._ Porthos nodded in understanding.

“Well, we’ll get outta yer hair,” Serge smiled. He turned to Aramis, “You make sure you eat everythin’ so you can get back with the boys, ya here.” He squeezed Aramis’ shoulder and headed out.

“Aye,” Cornet added. “They need you out there. The new cadets can’t shoot for rubbish.” He shut the door behind him.

Aramis sagged a bit at the sound of the door closing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trouble you.” He opened his eyes slowly and caught Porthos’ with his own.

Time stood still for Porthos. He held Aramis’ gaze, but what caught him by surprise was the feeling that his heart had migrated to his throat. _Oh,_ he had a thought so simple in its clarity. _This is what love feels like. I’m in love with Aramis._ Then, Porthos smiled wide, teeth sparkling, and dimples beckoning. 

Flea’s voice echoed in his head, _Sometimes, you just have to close your eyes and jump._ Porthos had the distinct impression that he’d jumped sometime earlier in the months he had known Aramis and was just now aware that he’d landed. He thought he might have jumped at the Inn of the Prancing Pony the first time Aramis held his gaze. “Damn.”

Aramis returned his smile with one that did reach his eyes, “Maybe we should eat while it’s still hot?” 

They moved to the table and sat down. Porthos poured wine for the both of them, and they ate in comfortable silence. When they were done, Porthos, having eaten his stew and half of Aramis’, stacked the bowls and filled the glasses with the last of the wine. 

Aramis got up and stoked the fire. When he was satisfied with the warmth of the flames, he stood and turned to find Porthos hovering in front of him. 

“Aren’t you hot? You wanna take of yer doublet? Boots?”

Aramis nodded and began to work the buttons on his doublet. Porthos gently swiped his hands away and undid them himself. He slid Aramis’ doublet off and flung it onto the back of a dining table chair. “Ya should be proud of yourself, ya know? Although, I kinda wish I’d been there to see it.”

“I needed to see if I could do it. It’s not fair for you to spend so much time here--deny yourself time with the musketeers--if I’m just a lost cause.” Aramis dropped his eyes and didn’t add how much he was afraid Porthos would stop spending time here if he didn’t show improvement. How important it was for him to show Porthos he could get better--was getting better. He doubted someone as impressive as his Pirate would chain himself to a broken man for long. In fact, he was positive he wouldn’t. Porthos would leave.

Porthos sensed their was much in Aramis’ last statements that had been left unsaid. He seemed afraid of something--of something Porthos might do. Then it came to him all at once, _He’s afraid I might leave if I don’t think he’s getting better. ___

__“Aramis?” Porthos gently reached for Aramis’ cheek and lifted his face up, “Aramis?”_ _

__Aramis looked up at Porthos through his lashes a glimmer of hope in them._ _

__“Aramis, I ... “ _Sometimes you just have to close your eyes and jump,_ “I love you.” Without fanfare, he just said it. He didn’t know what he expected; he hadn’t really ever said this to anyone before, but he definitely did not expect what happened next._ _

__Anger flooded Aramis’ eyes. He jerked back away from Porthos’ touch whipping his head out of Porthos’ hands, “You lie. Love is a lie. Never say that. Never!” The last part, he delivered in a hoarse yell._ _

__Porthos was shocked by the outburst, and oddly, he found his desire for Aramis climbing at the sight of such passion. Aramis had not looked this alive since before Savoy. “What are you talking about? Did you hear what I said? I would never lie to you, Aramis.”_ _

__“He didn’t mean it, and neither do you. It’s a lie. Why are you lying?” Aramis felt dread and panic swirling in his stomach. _He was going to leave. His Pirate was going to leave.__ _

__“Who didn’t mean it? What are ya talking about? I’ill never lie to ya.” _Oh,_ he thought, _does he mean Marsac?_ Then, it was Porthos’ turn to get angry, “I ain’t Marsac. Just because he said it to ya before he left ... He did didn’t he? That don’t mean I will.” _ _

__Porthos took a step toward Aramis. Aramis took a step back finding himself against the wall. “Yes, it does. I remember that. I remember that.” Aramis breathing was coming in quick pants. He felt he couldn’t get enough air. He moved his hands to his ears when the calls of the crows grew so loud he couldn’t think. He started to bend over._ _

__Porthos was taken aback at Aramis’ distress, “Aramis? Aramis? Hey, it’s all right. Calm down. You ‘ave to breathe.” Porthos placed his palm on Aramis’ chest. Aramis leaned into the touch and started to straighten up. He was still clutching his ears. His breaths were harsh and labored. “Hey, you need to calm down. Yer gonna pass out.”_ _

__Porthos didn’t know what to do. Should he hug him? Slap him? Both? He settled for wrapping his free hand around the back of Aramis’ neck skin-to-skin saying, “Yer all right. Just breathe. I’m not leaving. I’m not Marsac. I would never leave you by choice, do you understand?”_ _

__Aramis stilled. With the touch of Porthos’ hand at the back of his neck, the din in his head simple fell away. The crows quieted. The image of Marsac stumbling away in the snow vanished. His thoughts, so jumbled, shook themselves out and faded away so that all that was left was Porthos’ voice. He was telling him to breathe. That he wouldn’t leave. That it would be all right, and he realized in the peace Porthos gave him that he was telling the truth. His breathing began to even out. He dropped his hands to rest lightly on Porthos strong forearms._ _

__Aramis lifted his face to Porthos. He looked into his eyes and stared. “I believe you.”_ _

__Porthos willed himself not to flinch at the wave of emotion Aramis sent washing over him. He had never felt such love not since his mother died. He forced himself to keep speaking, “That’s it. Just breathe. I will never lie to you. I couldn’t. I love you. I don’t know what that means for us exactly. I’ve never said that to a man or a woman before. But, we’ll figure it out. Just breathe.”_ _

__Aramis smiled, shyly at first, then with a touch of his old, pre-Savoy confidence. “Keep your hands on me. Don’t let go.” He would not have been able to verbalize what he was doing, but his body knew. There was something important in that last thought. Something he should remember, and then it was gone. He shook his head slightly. He took a small step toward Porthos and kissed him. Lips closed at first. Chaste. But, then ..._ _

__Porthos obeyed Aramis and kept his hands where they were. He gripped the back of Aramis’ neck more firmly, but not painfully. He felt Aramis’ lips on his. Soft, not as soft as a woman’s, but still, soft. Aramis’ beard tickled his chin. Porthos parted his lips just a bit._ _

__Aramis pressed his advantage and flicked the tip of his tongue into Porthos’ mouth. He teased at his lips to get Porthos to open his mouth a little wider. Porthos felt his desire building. He moaned._ _

__Aramis pulled back at the sound. He looked at Porthos to make sure this was what he wanted. Porthos was flushed. His pupils were dilating. Aramis felt his own desire growing at the sight of him. “My Pirate. My Porthos. That was quite the first kiss.” Aramis moved his body closer so that their chests were almost touching. “And now, I wish a second.” He found Porthos’ lips again and pressed when he discovered an opening._ _

__Porthos felt Aramis’ tongue pushing deeper into his mouth caressing him. He felt Aramis’ hands moving on his body untying his shirt and pulling it out to expose his chest. He shuddered as fingertips brushed over his nipples. He felt Aramis smile as he let one hand palm down his stomach. The other drifted down under his shirt to circle Porthos’ waist._ _

__Leaving his hand at the back of Aramis’ neck, Porthos used his other to pull at the ties on Aramis’ shirt opening it down to his navel. Aramis began to kiss down Porthos’ neck stopping every few seconds to nibble and lick._ _

__Porthos pulled Aramis shirt out of his braies and slid his hand under the clean, white linen. He splayed his fingers and began to stroke over Aramis’ ribs and around to his back to feather his spine._ _

__Aramis moaned pulling himself even closer to so that their bare chests settled against each other._ _

__Porthos moved his leg in between Aramas’ as he picked him up and flipped them around so that now Portos' back was against the wall. Aramis leaned into him giving him his weight. He felt Aramis grow hard against his thigh. “Do what you like, Aramis. It’s all good to me.”_ _

__Wrapping his arms around Porthos’ strong neck, he whispered his name and began to move his hips letting his still-covered cock slowly drag over Porthos’ well-muscled thigh. He lifted his head so that their foreheads touched. Their lips so close together each exhale felt like a caress against his cheek._ _

__“Aramis, I want to touch you. Can I move my hand from yer neck?”_ _

__Aramis stiffened for a moment afraid of the din drowning him again, but Porthos knew he was nothing if not brave so he breathed, “Yes,” and he waited._ _

__Porthos squeezed his neck gently and released his palm. He let his hand travel slowly down Aramis’ neck to his back and around under his arm. He palmed one of Aramis’ nipples and rubbed. Aramis shivered. Porthos dragged his hand down and around again to grasp the musketeer’s back. He let his hand drift down farther to cup the swell of Aramis’ ass letting the tips of his fingers press into the crevice between his legs. Aramis gasped. Porthos pushed a bit harder, and the man in his arms mewled._ _

__He felt Aramis strokes along his thigh quicken to match the harsh pants against his neck. Porthos groaned in amazement at the need he felt for this man. _This injured man._ That last thought gave him pause. Was this all right to do? Was he taking advantage? He had to know._ _

__“Aramis?” Porthos whispered. “Aramis,” louder this time. “Wait. Please, I have to ask you somthin’. Please.” He pulled his head back, and tried to catch Aramis’ eye. Aramis was too far gone for such subtlety so Porthos let his hands rest on the younger man’s hips. He squeezed them a bit, “Aramis?”_ _

__Aramis made a valiant attempt to stop rutting against Porthos’ thigh. The problem was that he truly didn’t want to. He wanted to climb Porthos like a tree right up against this wall. He wanted to ride him. He could feel how hard Porthos was. How big he was. He wanted him, all of him, any way he could get him. He leaned in and kissed Porthos instead sloppy and wet._ _

__Porthos growled in desire matching the passion he felt radiating off of the angel in his arms. “Aramis. Please. It’s not right. Not without knowing for sure.”_ _

__That caught Aramis’ attention, “Knowing what for sure?” Aramis hips stilled against Porthos thigh, but his whole body seemed to tremble at the effort._ _

__“I can’t take advantage of you. What if you forget all of this tomorrow? What if I try to tell you and you don’t believe me?” Porthos’ voice sounded weak to him. Weak and far away. He couldn’t quite make himself look Aramis in the eye._ _

__Aramis’ reactions, Porthos had come to learn, were rarely what he expected them to be, and this was no exception. Much to Porthos’ surprise, Aramis laughed._ _

__“Then you will make me believe you.” A sudden thought occurred to him, and shyly he added, “If you want to, that is.”_ _

__“Aramis, of course I want to. That is no guarantee ...”_ _

__More confident now his hands caressing Porthos again, “I believe you. There are no guarantees, not about anything, but this is what I know. We are the two luckiest men in the whole of the world, and that is all the guarantee I need.”_ _

__Porthos looked at Aramis in disbelief, but his body relaxed at Aramis’ open expression. He let his hands move lightly against Aramis' skin. He thought he might know the answer, but he asked anyway a gentle teasing in his tone, “How am _I_ the luckiest man in the world?”_ _

__“Because, you are kissing me, and I am an excellent kisser.” So, no, he had not known the answer. He looked into Aramis’ face to see the most dazzling, confident, peacock of a smile he had ever seen. A smile he had _never_ seen, not even before Savoy. The last bit of anxiety entrenched deep in his heart evaporated when he realized this was Aramis’ smile for him alone. Before he knew it, a booming laugh escaped his chest. “All right, I’ll bite. So, how are _you_ the luckiest man in the world?”_ _

__Aramis’ expression softened, his eyes adoringly on the older man, “Don’t you see? Even if I forget, and you have to remind me of this, of us, every day ...” He leaned in and kissed him with such longing, Porthos wasn’t sure he could bare it._ _

__Pulling away and sounding a bit breathless, Aramis continued, “I am the luckiest of men because with you, I will have a lifetime of first kisses.”_ _

__~~~~~~~~~~~~~_ _


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Please,_ Porthos thought. _I need someone to help me. To help Aramis. The Captain is so busy. I don’t think I can do this alone._

Chapter 11

 

“So, has it been? A lifetime of first kisses, I mean,” d’Artagnan asked as Porthos finished his tale. Ever tactile, Aramis’ head was resting against his knee. At some point during Porthos’ story, Aramis had pushed down d’Artagnan’s boot. Now, his hand was clasped around d’Artagnan’s calf slowly stroking up and down. D’Artagnan’s hand was buried in Aramis’ hair gently scraping his scalp with his nails. His head was down as he looked toward the marksman.

“That is a very sensitive way to ask if my memories are in tact,” Aramis spoke, his voice dreamy and soft. 

“Well, they all feel like first kisses to me,” Athos added smiling at the two younger men. Their individual beauty was not lost on him and together ... touching? It was not so much sexual or erotic as it was intimate. Above all else, Athos was drawn to intimacy; he craved it. His cock twinged. He squeezed Porthos’ hand as he felt his face begin to flush and his nipples harden.

Porthos had been staring at Aramis letting himself get lost in his half-lidded, amber-colored eyes. “Don’t matter if ‘e remembers or not, ‘e’s an amazin’ kisser, and we are very lucky men.” He turns to look at Athos, an excellent kisser in his own right, and notices the level of his arousal as he watches Aramis and d’Artagnan. 

He studies the younger men for a moment. “They’re a sight; aren’t they?” He speaks so quietly Athos strains to hear him above the sound of the fire. Porthos puts his hand on the back of Athos’ neck. Athos eyes close. “That’s it. They’re mesmerizin’ with their hands on each other like that. Just breathe.”

“I want to ...”

“Oh, I know. You think I don’t? But, d’Artagnan’s not for us, and Aramis needs us to tell the rest of the story. We can’t leave ‘im hangin’. Besides, it’s not that late. I’ll bet Aramis will want us tonight. Don’tcha think? I’ll bet he’ll want ya to direct us. Lay your hands on us, and tell us what to do. What we see. What we taste.” Porthos licked his lips.

Athos moaned as he let his free hand snake up his shirt to loosen the collar. “I would like that very much. I want that,” he breathed rubbing his throat, “Here by the fire.” He leaned into Porthos wanting to crawl in his lap. Instead he settled for kissing him again, deep and hungry.

Porthos allowed himself a few moments to be lost in Athos’ passion before pulling away, “Easy, Athos. Just breathe. There’s time enough tonight for everything we want to do. I promise. There’s time enough.” He leaned back in for a more leisurely kiss.

The fire sparked and popped. None of them noticed. 

D’Artagnan was oblivious to all but Aramis. He whispered to the man at his feet, “You are all right now, though. Aren’t you? I’m sorry that I didn’t realize. That’s why you never said my name the first month I knew you. Why you called me Whelp all of the time. I’m sorry. I thought I just wasn’t important enough to register with you. When you finally said my name, I was so proud.” 

Aramis tensed a bit and tore his eyes away from the sight of his lovers greedily kissing to look up at d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan’s expression was one of deep concern and caring not the lustful gaze he had feared so Aramis relaxed again. He smiled up at the Whelp. “I’m better. I’ve never really regained what I lost from before Savoy. I still ... have holes ... “ _Yes, an enormous one from about sixteen weeks ago, for example._ “and ... please accept my apologies ... for some reason new proper nouns are still elusive.”

D’Artagnan’s fingers continued to thread through Aramis’ curls, “There is still more to the story, though. Isn’t there?”

D’Artagnan’s expression so young and hopeful made Aramis grin. “Oh, yes. Athos has yet to make himself known.” He turned back toward his older brothers. “Is that not so, _mi amour_? Isn’t it your turn now?” 

Athos pulled away from Porthos. His lips a bit redder than usual his cheeks somewhat flushed, but otherwise he appeared calm and collected so Porthos removed his hand from his neck choosing instead to rest it on the older man’s thigh. Athos glanced at him in thanks and began, “Yes, this is where I enter the story. Brothers, I feel you may wish to come to my aid while I tell my part. Please do not. You know very well that I only speak the truth. I was a man without hope until I was saved by a pirate and an angel.” He pulled himself up to his full noble glory and waited.

Porthos caught Aramis’ eye and smiled. Aramis gently squeezed d’Artagnan’s calf to ensure his attention and turned back to Athos his expression both earnest and loving, “We would not dream of interrupting, but d’Artagnan should know that we never saw you the way you describe yourself--not then, not now, not ever.”

An owl hooted in the distance. 

Seemingly against his will, the side of Athos’ mouth quirked up, and he nodded in concession to the familiar end of this old discussion, “I call this tale, The Mountain Man and The Avenging Angel.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A pathetic remnant of a man stumbled through his empty house. Somewhere between a drunken stupor and a deathly hangover, he found himself in his father’s darkened study. A room he had not visited in months if the dust was any indication. He could not for the life of him remember why he wanted to come in here; yet, here he was surrounded by all that was his father: a pile of unopened letters of correspondence, various weapons under glass, some out serving as paperweights, and books both old and new mostly about weapons and the craft of war. 

He knew if he had gone into his mother’s sewing room instead, it would be the polar opposite of this. Her study was light and airy, and there was not a needle to be found. Rather, maps of all kinds were out on display on table tops, on the walls, and more unseen rolled into long tubes and resting in specially made bins set around the room. Glass magnifiers were laid near open maps, loose paper and quills set to write queries or jot down notes.

Alas, he was not there, he was here confronted with what amounted to weeks of work just responding to letters.

Annoyed, he dropped into his father’s chair and shoved the correspondence onto the floor intending to put his head down and sleep. However, he noticed one envelope still on the desk carefully balancing on the precipice leading to the floor. The only remaining son of the Comte de la Fare reached for the letter intending to throw it onto the discarded pile when he noticed the stamp set in wax on the back. Treville’s strong and defiant T seemed to challenge him to open the letter. Lacking the energy to put up a fight, he broke the seal and read the missive.

 

_To my old friend, Gil,_

_As spring is finally here, I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. We miss you at Court as the King noted when he inquired about you just the other day._

_Sadly, I cannot spend too much time on the usual niceties, and I hope you will forgive me for getting straight to the point. We have suffered a great loss at the Garrison. During this past Holy Week, I sent twenty-two musketeers to Savoy on a routine training exercise. The King’s soldiers were slaughtered as they slept. Two of my men survived, but only one came back._

_Due to the loss of so many men at one time, I am forced to swell my remaining ranks with a larger group of cadets than I am comfortable. These new recruits must be trained effectively and efficiently. As you are, arguably, the best swordsman in France, I would beg your services for a few months to guide these future Blue Cloaks in developing their skills with a blade._

_I look forward to your swift reply._

_As always,_

_Jean_

 

Several things struck Olivier at once. One, he has been remiss in informing His Majesty’s Court of the death of his father. Two, Captain Jean Treville, of the King’s Musketeers and a life-long friend of his father’s, was in need. As a boy, he had met Treville on a trip to Paris with his father. They visited the young Captain, then of the regular army, at the palace where he was stationed. He remembered thinking ‘that is what a real soldier looks like, acts like, talks like.’ From that day forward, whenever anyone mentioned soldiers, Olivier pictured his father’s old friend, Treville.

Olivier felt the pull of familial responsibility even though he would have argued that such a thing was ridiculous. He was reasonably sure he could train the cadets. After all, his father trained him. _Twenty-two men went and only one came back._

He supposed it was ennui. He was in a constant state of inaction. He had no great desire to leave the Estate, nor did he feel strongly about staying in what was essentially a mausoleum. He did not want to be drunk, nor did he want to be sober. He did not want to continue living, nor did he have the energy to act on the alternative. _Twenty-two men went and only one came back._

Who were these musketeers? Probably heroes with wives or lovers who deserved better than they received. _Twenty-two men went and only one came back._ What of the one who came back? Maybe Olivier could be of service. 

He felt the wall of inertia that had surrounded him all these many months begin to crack.

He found a sheet of ivory parchment in the desk and grabbed his father’s ink and quill to scrawl his response.

 

_Dear Captain Treville,_

_Please accept my condolences on the loss of your men._

_I would also ask that you accept my sincerest apologies for not informing you of my father’s untimely death on St. Casimer’s day of this year._

_Your request of my father mentions the need for a swordsman to train your new cadets. I humbly offer my skills in my father’s stead. I think you will find me a reasonable replacement as my father trained me himself. If you find my services amenable, I would be willing to purchase my commission at any time you deem acceptable._

_Please send your reply via my messenger. He has been instructed to wait._

_Sincerely,_

_Olivier de la Fare_

 

In the long run, he supposed, if Treville accepted his offer to take his father’s place, being a soldier was something at least. He could easily afford the commission, and his aim was fair. Hand-to-hand might prove to be a challenge, but it had to be better than the torpor of this last year ... of the nothingness.

_Twenty-two men went and only one came back._


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 

The last of the snow had melted away, and although the grey overcast skies threatened rain from dawn until dusk, the ground was dry and the air temperate. Athos supposed he should appreciate this as he stood for muster in the Garrison’s courtyard along with several dozen or so new and bleary-eyed cadets. Unfortunately, his hangover made it impossible to appreciate anything that didn’t involve either sleep or more wine. He pulled his hat down lower to shield his eyes. 

“Athos!” Treville bellowed from the top of the stairs. “Meet me at Serge’s table in five. Cornet, get these sleepy excuses moving. Maybe a quick march or a run will wake them up a bit.”

Cornet eyed his charges. “I know just the route, sir.” He turned to the men still standing at attention, “All right, you cadets. You heard your captain. Look sharp and follow me.” The men groaned. Cornet grinned. He was older than Treville; yet, no one would ever know it. The blonde-haired musketeer’s body was lean and wiry because he loved to run. He eschewed horses whenever possible and ran miles on his own every chance he got; and this was definitely a chance. A bit dejectedly, the cadets jogged out of the Garrison raising a cloud of dust in their wake.

Grateful he was staying behind, Athos straightened up and attempted to look at the sky. He was almost successful until his temples began to throb. Finding himself standing alone in the middle of the courtyard, he turned and walked to the table closest to the Mess. He removed his weapons’ belt and sat at one end. The other end of the table was occupied, but he paid scant attention to anything outside of the blacksmith hammering inside his skull.

Athos heard the musketeer captain’s determined stride echo down the wooden stairs above him. The pounding jarred his already tender head.

Not one to waste time, the Captain dispensed orders while he moved, “Good. Porthos, I am expected at the Palace before noon; you will accompany me.”

A deep-voiced musketeer sitting somewhere at the other end of the table responded, “Yes, sir.”

“Aramis,” Treville’s voice softened a bit causing Athos to turn his head just enough to see the two musketeers seated at the other end of the wooden-plank table. 

The smaller of the two men momentarily met Treville’s gaze before beginning a scan of the yard, “My Captain?”

“Do you feel up to putting the armory in order? The cadets could do with some instruction on the care and maintenance of the weapons that may someday save their lives.” 

Without pause, Aramis gave an automatic, “Yes, Sir,” to the order. 

“Good. Have everything spic and span by the time Porthos and I return.”

Aramis nodded as he removed his hat and turned to Treville. He ran a hand through a mess of dark curls unintentionally revealing to Athos an angry red scar at the man’s temple. Athos felt a surge of protectiveness toward this soldier thinking, I should take him back to his rooms so he can get some sleep. Athos shook his head to clear the peculiar thought and noticed Porthos staring at him. He’d placed a hand on Aramis’ shoulder and Athos was sure he heard a low growl emanating from the far end of the table.

For some reason, this made Treville smile, “Athos, how is your experience with pistols and arquebus?”

Surprised to be included in their conversation, Athos nodded, “I am well versed in using them. Unfortunately, not so much in cleaning them.”

Treville smiled. Someone of Athos’ nobility would have had left the dirty jobs to the family’s servants. “Well, there is no time to learn like the present. You will help Aramis.”

“Of course,” this also surprised Athos. From what he could see of the injured man’s scar and the way the large musketeer hovered over him, this soldier probably belonged in the infirmary or medically discharged back to his family. Regardless, he did not look ready to take charge of men and weaponry.

Treville turned to Aramis and Porthos. “Why don’t you two visit the armory and work out the best course of action to get this done?”

Athos watches Aramis put his hat back on and get up from the table. He glances at Porthos with a questioning look and Porthos shakes his head. Aramis nodded at the big man and moved toward Athos with his hand outstretched, “I am Aramis. I will meet you back down here in an hour.” 

Athos nods, “I am Athos.”

Aramis’ eyes flicker with curiosity, “That is the name of a mountain, yes?”

Athos blinked. This man reminded him of someone. He was remarkably handsome. He pushed that thought down, “Yes, in the north of Greece. How do you know of it? Have you been there?”

“No. It is a Holy Mountain,” Aramis replies as if this explains his knowledge.

“My mother was quite fond of that map,” Athos adds quietly. Aramis nods at him like that last comment made perfect sense.

A large shadow landed across Athos’ face blocking the light.

“This is ... Porthos.” Aramis gestured toward the shadow.

Athos nodded and took the offered hand, “Athos.”

“I watched ya’ training the cadets yesterday. You’re good with a rapier.” Porthos turned toward Aramis, “Maybe even be better’n you.”

Aramis smiled up at Porthos, “Oh, am I good with a blade, My Pirate?”

“All things lethal, my friend. You’re frighteningly good with all things lethal.” Porthos nodded to Athos and tapped Aramis’ arm. They turned toward the armory to come up with a plan. 

Athos noticed how close they walked to each other. How comfortable they were even though one was so clearly damaged. They were like brothers. He felt a pang of need for Thomas that would forever go unmet. He missed the intimacy of close friendship for Thomas had been his best friend as well as his little brother.

Treville sat down next to Athos and opened a leather-bound ledger. Athos moved is eyes to focus on the book. The Captain turned several pages that to Athos looked like census lists of men. As he turned pages, Athos noted that while all of the men have an initial date next to their names, possibly the day they joined the Musketeers, twenty or so names had the same end date ... Good Friday of this year. Athos sucked in a sharp breath. The Massacre. He turns toward the two retreating musketeers thinking of the slash at Aramis’ temple. Is he ...?

“Yes,” Treville seemingly read his mind. “Aramis survived Savoy; although, not as in tact as I would have hoped. I tell you this only because it may be necessary to know later. He took a blow to the temple. He suffers from the aftereffects of a severe head injury: headaches, dizziness, memory loss. Do not be surprised if he cannot remember your name later.” His eyes saddened as he spoke.

Athos, never one to be delicate or to beat around the bush, “Should he be accepting orders? Is he fit to be a musketeer?”

Treville’s iron gaze stops Athos cold. His expression clearly saying that is the one and only time he would allow that question. “He is the best of us and will be treated as such. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” As the owner of several secrets of his own that he did not ever want to discuss, Athos recognized a closed topic when he heard one. He dropped it, and returned to studying the ledger in front of him. 

As his eyes focused in once again on the lists, he noticed small glyphs sketched in front of each name. The images appeared to be symbols or icons. Every name had between two and four pictographs; each name showing the shield and spear symbol for the Roman God Mars plus one to three more. “Are these ...”

“The blessings we all carry. Yes. What do you notice?”

Athos barely hid his surprise. He had thought the blessing story was just that ... a story. He had never put stock in it; yet, here was one of the best men he knew treating the idea as commonplace as inheriting eye or hair color from a parent. Athos took a breath. He did not have enough energy to argue the idea of blessings. So, he studied them again for a minute, “All Blue Cloaks carry the blessing of Mars, the Roman God of War.”

Treville nods, “It is one of the few hard and fast requirements to being a Musketeer. What else?”

“Each of these men possesses the blessings of one to three more Roman gods.” He was suddenly struck with a pique of curiosity, “Why do you track this? How is this used?” Athos, a born strategist, saw patterns emerging from the groupings of the names.

The Captain smiled, “Every Musketeer carries the blessings of Mars, as I said, as well as one to three others, yes. Not just the Roman gods, Greek, Egyptian, Norse, Celtic, and not just gods, some blessings are from angels, heroes, saints, and legends as well. Each blessing brings with it a gift or a curse depending on your point of view.” He reached into his doublet and pulled out a small drawstring bag. He opened it carefully and removed a pinch of gray powder that sparked in the morning sunlight.

“You need to know what blessings I carry?” When the Captain nodded, he continued a tone of distrust creeping in, “Are you a wizard?”

“This powder is given to me from His Eminence by order of the King. The Cardinal taught me how to use it.” Treville dissembled.

Athos took a deep breath and nodded in relief. He was never one to put faith in those who said they studied magic. “Go ahead.”

Treville rubbed the powder over his fingers whispering a prayer to Hecate. He cupped Athos’ cheek with one hand and smeared the powder over his forehead. He whispered a second prayer and gently blew a cool breath across the dust revealing three glyphs--one darker than the others. Treville quickly sketched them down next to Athos’ name in the ledger as the spell was already fading. 

“What did you see?” Athos asked already looking at the ledger. His forehead tingled and his headache receded. 

“You carry the mark of Mars. That is good. You also carry a strong blessing from Athena, Greek Goddess of Battle Strategy. This one is darker; it is a double blessing. The mark of the owl must come from both sides of your family, and here is one from Justitia, the Roman Goddess of Justice. These all bode well for one who wears the Blue Cloak.”

Athos paled at the mention of Justitia; although, it explained much. He was sure that last one was a curse not a blessing, but he said nothing. Instead, he nodded at the information. “How do you use this knowledge?”

“I group the men to complement each other as much as possible. I also try to assign individual duties according to a man’s strengths.” It is a strategy I have found to be quite successful. He turns to the first page of the book. “For example, here is Cornet. He carries the blessings of Mars, Iris, and St. Thomas Aquinas. This makes him a warrior, fleet of foot, and an excellent teacher. The Musketeers would not be what we are today without Cornet’s guidance of all cadets who enter the Garrison.”

“And now that you know mine? Who would you put me with?” Athos felt the smallest niggling somewhere deep in his chest. 

The older man smiled, “Assuming you decide to purchase your commission, I would put you with men who could balance your more cerebral blessings. Men of action who might be a bit less likely to worry about the rules of engagement. Men who enjoy the act of living and wish to ensure that we all have that same chance.” He eyed the Comte then studying his reaction.

“That would certainly challenge me to expand my views of the world and quite possibly my patience,” Athos huffed.

“Captain Treville!” Serge yelled from the kitchen.

“I’ll be right back,” rising from the table and giving Athos a nod. “What?” he yelled as he strode toward the mess.

Athos let a sad sigh escape his lips. _He would put me with men who enjoy the act of living._

Athos continued to scan the pages in the ledger and commit the information to memory. He had always been able to remember information that might prove useful in his life. His eyes stopped at Porthos’ name not to far above his own. Their were four glyphs. Athos recognized Mars, of course. Then, he noticed the trident symbol for Poseidon, a crocodile symbol for Sebek, the Egyptian God of Strength, and a symbol he didn’t know. It looked like an oil lamp. Beside it, Treville had neatly added in one word, _Djin_. 

Based on the blessings, he surmised that some of Porthos’ family must come from Northern Africa and Arabia. Athos made some educated guesses on what type of soldier Porthos would be. The first three glyphs indicate that he would be a formidable opponent on land or sea ... a man of physical strength and character. In the blessing stories he heard as a youth, a blessing from one of the three strongest Greek gods was quite powerful. When he added Sebek’s blessing into the mix he felt Porthos must be a fierce warrior protective of his brothers-- _especially protective of one particular brother._ He did not know what the Djin blessing brought with it, but he put it in the back of his mind to find out. 

Out of curiosity, he flipped back pages looking for Aramis’ name. He was surprised to find it on the first page just under Cornet’s. Aramis had been one of the first recruits. He must have barely been twenty. The glyphs next to his name seemed to be at odds with each other. Aramis’ blessings included a myrtle leaf for Aphrodite, the anemone for Adonis, the shield and spear of Mars, and the last ... a wing crossed by a lance. This was the symbol for the Archangel Michael. 

Interesting, thought Athos. Porthos, Cornet’s, and his own blessing seemed to enhance each other or at the very least not interfere. Aramis’ seemed to indicate a constant battle. Was Aramis a religious man defending the faith of the c hosen? A libertine who carried the blessings of the Goddess of Love, Beauty, Pleasure, and Procreation? A courtesan who carved out his existence based on an astonishing resemblance to every statue Athos had ever seen of Adonis, the God of Male Beauty and Youth? And let’s not forget to mention that Mars had killed Adonis even though his sworn protector was Aphrodite, The God of War’s own lover. 

Athos was fascinated by this. It was so foreign to him, he supposed. Although, his life was a tortured mess, in his heart, he was a simple man with simple needs. He had wanted the love of a family that included his brother and a chance to enjoy all that life granted him. He ended up with neither of those things, but those needs were still his heart’s desire. Aramis seemed the exact opposite if the blessings were to be believed. 

Athos imagined that Aramis’ soul would be pulled and torn in so many directions. Yet, he did not appear so. Had he made peace with himself? Did he just cover it well? Could he no longer remember? That last question gave him pause. There must be a way to aid Aramis. He felt he needed to help him. Was this desire a part of Aphrodite’s blessing of protection for Adonis that had somehow transferred to Aramis? The resemblance to Adonis was astounding. So close, he wouldn’t be surprised if Aramis was not a direct descendant. He felt his headache returning. His ability to handle the flow of questions and suppositions was rusty. His brain felt sluggish from lack of use.

He found himself flipping the pages back and forth between his name, Porthos’ name and Aramis’ name. He felt the stirrings of something forming. He needed more information. He needed to let it coalesce and grow. There it was again: a wiggling warm spot in his chest. He thought it might be hope. The feeling was still so small. He closed his eyes, focused on his breathing, and let his mind work.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am dedicating this chapter to the lovely Uena and her series, The Sweetest Thing. If you know this work, you will understand why.

Chapter 13

 

In the hour it took for Porthos and Aramis to return, the Captain came to retrieve the ledger saying they could discuss it again tomorrow--if Athos was interested. Athos response was a purposefully dry, “I am not dis-interested.” 

Treville laughed and stomped back up the stairs yelling for Porthos as he went.

A few minutes later, Porthos and Aramis emerged from the armory each carrying several sets of pistols along with the cleaning implements Aramis would need. They laid everything out on the table, and Aramis sat down in front of a standard Musketeer pistol. Porthos sat across from him, “Tell me the steps to clean the pistol.”

Aramis opened his mouth and then closed it again. He frowned, “I ... feel like I should be able to, but ... Perhaps I should not have told My Captain I could do this.” He looked down at the table, dejected.

“Maybe we could write down the steps?” Porthos offered, but it was obvious even he didn’t like the idea. Aramis needed to project confidence. Reading off notes would not do that. Porthos shook his head sadly.

“Are those your pistols?” Athos asked as he moved closer to the two men.

Aramis shook his head and looked up at Athos, “Mine are much nicer. Mine are made to the perfect weight and fit for _my_ hand.”

“What do they look like?” Porthos looked at Athos his mouth moving to form a question. Athos ignored him for the moment.

Aramis looked up and to the left for a moment, “The wood is burled oak. All the furniture is brass. They are highly ornate. The forearm portion is of bone. The metal is a shiny silver. They are one of a kind.”

Athos nodded, “Aramis look down.” On the table, Aramis’ hands had disassembled a pistol in the time it took to describe his own guns.

Porthos let out a huff.

“How did I ...” Aramis trailed off in disbelief.

“If I can be so bold, I think your hands know what to do even if your mind does not. I don’t think you’ve forgotten the actions ... just the words to describe them.” Athos felt his own face relax into Aramis’ expression of pure delight.

“Athos, you have no idea ...” Porthos added, appreciation obvious in his tone.

Athos made eye contact with Porthos and was slightly taken aback at the depth of sincerity he saw there.

“Yes, thank you, My Mountain Man.”

Athos paused for a beat at Aramis’ sobriquet for him and gave the musketeer a shy half smile. “Please do not thank me. I merely served as the distraction. The skill is yours; that was very fast, Aramis. I think the cadets and I will be in good hands today.”

“Porthos!” bellowed Treville as he once again stomped down the stairs. “I see you are ready. Aramis, Athos, how goes the plan to clean the armory and the weapons?”

Athos answered, “Good sir. Aramis will teach me before the cadets return. Then, I will explain the steps as Aramis demonstrates. His speed will give them something to aim for.” Athos caught Porthos smirk and Aramis eyes on Porthos even as his hands began wiping down the pieces of the pistol. 

“Yeah, maybe a little competition? Musketeers always like to prove they’re the best,” Porthos grinned. 

Treville smiled, “That is because we _are_ the best. Carry on. Porthos, with me.” He looked toward Aramis, “We should be back before nightfall.”

Aramis glanced toward the main gates and gave a stiff nod. Porthos paused and looked Aramis in the eye. They held each other’s gaze as Treville set off toward the palace.

Athos felt the need to reassure both of them, “We will be fine. We’ll wait right here until you get back. We have a lot to do, yes?” he tilted his head in question to Aramis.

Aramis tore his eyes away from Porthos to look at Athos. “Yes, My Mountain Man, we do.” His gaze returned to Porthos.

Porthos’ posture relaxed a bit. He nodded at Athos, gave Aramis a smile in return that seemed to hint at something more ... something intimate, and turned to jog after the Captain.

“So,” Athos began as he sat down across from Aramis and pulled a pistol to him, “Do you like maps? My mother had a room filled with many dozens of them. Her favorites were her collection depicting Ancient Greece.” 

Aramis looked at Athos and smiled. He knew what he was doing, and he didn’t care. He had no doubt the armory would be clean by the end of the day. “Your mother, she had a Map Room? What did it look like?” Aramis never took his eyes off of Athos; his expression was one of gratitude, as his hands continued cleaning and reassembling the pistol.

Athos copied Aramis’ hand movements on the pistol. He realized as he looked into Aramis’ eyes that he felt grateful to have helped him. This man inspired the most odd thoughts. Athos blinked several times and continued, “Her Map Room was supposed to be her sewing room, but my mother had no skill with needles either for embroidery or tatting. She could, however, find anything anywhere on her maps with but the vaguest of clues. My father used to say she must carry the blessing of St. Anthony.”

 

By noon, the courtyard was in disarray. Weapons of all types were scattered about on tables, stairs, laid out on tarps on the ground. Cadets, Musketeers, stable boys, and kitchen help were all out cleaning, sharpening, and organizing the Garrison’s armory.

Athos, Cornet, and Serge stood to one side eyeing the controlled chaos with both consternation and awe. Athos turned to the older men, “It started out innocently enough. Aramis and I were to demonstrate the cleaning and care of the standard-issue pistol, but then ...”

“So, Aramis just ... sat down at a table and started cleaning guns,” Cornet prodded.

“Yes. He and I were talking while he disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled pistols. The stable boys came out to watch, and Aramis asked them to bring out more weapons and lay them around,” Athos gestured toward the other tables, “He promised to show them how to clean the pistols, too. The boys were eager and soon emptied the _entire_ armory around the courtyard.”

“When my kitchen boys saw the stable boys gettin’ lessons, they begged to join in. It didn’t seem right to say no,” Serge added rubbing his hands through a shock of white hair.

“And my cadets, who were weeping and wailing about the light jog we took around the city joined in as soon as they entered the gates,” Cornet looked at Aramis who was showing a group of cadets how to sharpen the blades of various daggers. “How is he doing?”

“If you asked him the steps of the task, I do not think he could tell you; however, if you distract him a bit with a story or question, his body knows what to do. The men, and boys, picked up on that right away.” Indeed, Athos noted, the recruits were taking turns telling stories while the others studied Aramis’ hands and copied his movements. 

Odd, Athos thought, he does not seem to make eye contact with the other men; rather, Aramis let his eyes flit around the courtyard pausing only at the front gate and then continuing. Occasionally, Aramis’ gaze would rest on Athos for a few seconds seemingly to confirm he was still there. One of them would give a small nod to the other and Aramis would continue to scan the grounds.

 

By late afternoon, the courtyard was more or less back to normal. Athos organized the return of the weapons to the armory where Cornet was directing the careful placement of each item. Aramis was sitting at the same table where he had started the day slowly rubbing his temples. After Athos sent the last pistol back to the armory, he sat down to join Aramis. “Are you all right?”

Aramis looked up to see the care and concern in Athos’ eyes and smiled, “A bit of a headache. Nothing to worry about.” Aramis moved his hands back to the rapier in front of him. He had polished the metal until it shined.

Athos nodded, “The Captain sent word that he and Porthos would not be back until after dinner.” He took a breath. He had no experience in making friendly overtures to soldiers. “I ... I have some wine in my rooms above the Wren. Would you like to join me for a drink? Then, we could return to wait for them.”

“You live outside of the Garrison?” Aramis glanced with some trepidation at the front gate.

Athos, who had assumed he would be turned down, took a moment to register what Aramis had actually said. He did not say no. He seemed more concerned about _where_. “Oh,” he wondered. Aramis had not yet been cleared for active duty, which means he may be under orders to stay in the Garrison. The politeness of his rank descended upon him, “You know, you’re probably right. One of us should remain here. Would you join me in a drink if I retrieve the wine from my rooms and bring it here to this table?”

Aramis took a relieved breath, “Yes, My Mountain Man. It is a nice evening to enjoy a drink outside.”

 

Twilight was fading into night as Athos headed back to the Garrison. He forgot he drank all of his wine the day before and had to buy another two bottles from one of the serving girls at the Wren. 

He was walking down the garrison road that led right into the courtyard. The main gates were in sight when he heard boot steps behind him. He shifted the bottles to his left hand and took a breath to calm his heartbeat as he counted the sound of two more sets of boots behind him. He was within shouting distance now, and just outside the entrance, he could see Serge’s empty wagon waiting for the early morning trip to the open-air market. 

The steps behind him were gaining on him. Athos pulled his rapier and turned to face his potential attackers. Men of the Cardinal’s Red Guard were drawing their swords and surrounding him on three sides. 

From the front, “What do we have here,” The biggest and ugliest of them slurred. “A Blue Cloak out all alone. We should do the King a favor and put him out of his misery. Doncha’ think, boys?”

The other two Red Guards did not appear to be as drunk as their leader nor, unfortunately, did they seem opposed to the idea. Athos backed up moving the group closer to the Garrison. He raised his rapier and held his arm defensively. The Guard to his right lunged toward him. Athos easily parried and riposted. The Red Cloak, obviously older than the others, stepped backward to avoid being stabbed, tripped, and fell on his elbows howling.

The Guard to his left stepped into Athos space and tried to land a blow. Athos, to his later chagrin, blocked the charge with the wine bottles breaking them. He groaned as he watched them fall. Angry, he turned to the Guard and began a redoublement when the big, ugly Guard whipped his rapier down slicing Athos right arm. 

Athos drew in a sharp breath and fell to his knees. The big Red Guardsman brought his rapier back up aiming for Athos’ face when a shout from the Garrison stopped them all cold. Athos turned to the sound and could not believe his eyes.

Aramis was running at full bore toward them. He was holding a rapier up as he leapt onto the back of Serge’s wagon, crossed the empty cart in two steps and using the front lip of the seat propelled himself through the air.

Athos was forced to look up. Aramis had the appearance of cutting through the air like an avenging angel. To Athos, it seemed that time had slowed to a halt as he took in Aramis’ perfect form and bloodthirsty expression. Athos felt the, for him, completely irrational desire to bow his head ... to cross himself.

Time resumed its normal speed and Aramis landed smoothly in front of Athos. Aramis immediately struck the ugly brute of a Red Guard by using his forward momentum to slam his pommel into the man’s face. Athos grimaced at the sound of breaking cartilage and teeth. 

Aramis whirled around and performed a _raddoppio_ disarming the last attacker and sending him running away from the Garrison. Athos took a moment to admire Aramis’ graceful footwork and made a note to spar with him to improve his blade position.

“My Mountain Man, you are hurt.” Aramis offered Athos his hand helping him up.

“I have a scratch; the wine is hurt ... worse ... killed.”

Aramis laughed aloud at that, “You are right, my friend. There is not even enough left to bury.”

Athos groaned again but felt himself warm at Aramis’ laugh. I will have to make that happen again, he thought.

“Come,” Aramis said eying the blood dripping down Athos’ arm. He took Athos by his uninjured arm and pulled him to the Garrison. “You will need stitches. I have a kit in my room.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos concludes his story of The Mountain Man And The Avenging Angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for posting this chapter later than usual. Real life ...

Chapter 14

 

Athos allowed himself to be led by Aramis back into the Garrison. He felt blood dripping down his arm and was fairly sure he would need stitches. 

“Aramis, Athos, what happened?” Cornet was shouting as he took the stairs down two at a time his silver hair streaming behind him. He must have been asleep because he was barefoot wearing only breeches and a loose linen shirt.

“I was attacked by three Red Guardsmen outside the main gate. I handled one, but was injured. Aramis took care of the other two. I believe you may find one of them still out there laying in the street.” Athos tried to pull Aramis toward the infirmary, but Aramis would not budge.

“I have a kit in my room. That cut will need stitches.” Aramis pulled him toward the stairs.

“Athos, stop struggling. He is stubborn when it comes to treating wounds. I will take care of the guard if he is still out there.” He held his hand out to Aramis who tossed him his rapier, and Cornet quickly jogged out of the Garrison.

A few minutes later, Athos found himself seated in a battered but sturdy chair next to a small oaken table. Aramis filled a basin with clean rainwater from a pewter pitcher on the windowsill and was slowly unwrapping a small kit containing all the supplies needed to take care of a flesh wound. He got up to gather some pieces of fresh linen to use to clean and bandage the injury and another basin, which he kept empty. Aramis pulled a half-finished bottle of wine off the windowsill and uncorked it with his teeth. 

“Is that for me to drink,” Athos eyed the bottle hopefully.

Aramis spit the cork out onto the table. “I do not think you would want to drink this, My Mountain Man. It is practically vinegar, but it will clean your wound.” Athos used a small dagger from the kit to cut off part of the arm of Athos shirt. He then poured the wine onto the cut saying, “This might sting a bit.”

Athos grunted as the vinegary substance rolled down his arm and to the table. Aramis quickly wiped it with a piece of linen. Athos watched as Aramis took a long piece of silk and expertly poked it through the eye of a needle. 

“This will hurt my friend.” Aramis wrapped a hand around Athos arm to stabilize it before beginning his first stitch. 

Athos watched Aramis as he worked. All of his concentration was on the task at hand. He realized that Aramis was doing this without distraction. For some reason, this skill set was solid in his memory or perhaps it was the rush of the fight. 

Aramis laid down ten stitches and then moved to tie off the last loop. Athos had experienced stitches before and knew this part was the most painful. He saw Aramis take a relaxing breath. He imagined he was releasing a bit of the stress of the evening. Athos turned toward the window and closed his eyes.

He felt the pinch of Aramis slicing the thread and tying off the stitch. He then heard drops of water hitting the empty basin as Aramis wrung a used bandage trying to clean out any remaining blood. The room fell silent. 

Aramis gasped. 

Athos quickly opened his eyes and turned back toward him. “Aramis?”

Aramis jumped away from the table knocking his chair over in the process. His eyes were fixed on the unused white bandages laid out on the table. The top formerly pristine piece of cloth was marred by a few red drops of Athos’ blood. Athos suddenly noticed the smell of blood in the room and Aramis’ crimson hands. 

Aramis’ breathing was loud in the room--too loud and too fast. He stared at his fingers for a moment and then put his bloody hands over his ears staining the sides of his face and hair red. 

“Aramis!”

Aramis clamped his eyes closed and began moving away from the table. He tripped over the chair and fell backwards his head hitting the side of his bed. There were tears on his cheeks, and he began whispering, “No. No. No ...”

Athos was familiar with panic attacks having experienced a few of his own over the past year. With no one to help him, he had turned to drink to head them off before they could begin. Inwardly, he cursed the Red Guard again for the death of his wine. Well, for everything really.

“Aramis,” Athos stood up from his chair and held his hands out in front of him as if he were trying to calm a spooked horse. “Aramis, you are in the Garrison in your own room. This is not Savoy.” He took several small, slow steps toward Aramis. He crouched down a few feet away from him. “Aramis, you are safe. You are here with me, Athos, Your Mountain Man. It is not Savoy.”

“All dead. All dead ... The crows are so loud calling to each other to feast ... It smells like blood. All dead.” He was squeezing his ears so tightly his fingers were turning white. His breathing was coming in pants. He began to shake his head back and forth.

“Aramis, you are going to faint. You need to calm down. This is not Savoy.” Athos gently lowered himself to his knees and inched his way forward until he was next to Aramis. He reached his hands up and covered Aramis’. The blood was tacky and Aramis’ hair was in sticky clumps around both ears. Athos closed his eyes and pictured his mother’s map room. 

He kept his voice soft and even, “Aramis, remember the sewing room in my parent’s home. The one where my mother kept her maps? Did I mention the walls were white? She had it painted every year in early summer. 

“I remember standing in there after the paint dried. I was perhaps ten. My mother cracked the window and a light breeze wafted into the room. Her rose bushes--she planted them outside all of the first floor windows--had just achieved their first bloom. The scent of roses filled the space pushing out the paint fumes. The morning sun reflected off the white walls turning them yellow. All I could hear was the soft rustling of the maps in the breeze and the swishing of my mother’s skirts as she removed the old sheets she used to protect her maps from any paint spills.”

Athos opened his eyes and looked at Aramis. His breathing had slowed a bit. His cheeks were still wet, but his fingers were no longer white. Keeping hold of Aramis’ hands, Athos gently pried his fingers from his hair and lowered them down onto his lap. 

“Crows. I can still hear them calling.” Aramis’ breath hitched.

Athos closed his eyes again keeping a firm hold on Aramis’ hands. “No crows. No birds at all. Just the rustling of paper and cloth. Just the smell of roses. Just the feel of the warm sun on our skin.”

“I can see it. How is this so? I am standing here? How?”

“Shh. Mama, can I show Aramis one of your maps? The one that shows Mt. Athos?”

A patrician, auburn-haired woman with sparkling green eyes smiled at them both, “Of course, Olivier. Just be careful when you handle it.” She bundled the sheets into her arms, “I will be right back.” 

Athos, ten-year-old Olivier, expertly pulled out a map of Ancient Greece. He pointed to Mt. Athos. “Here it is. Do you see it?”

The scraping of wood as the door flew open caused both men to flinch and open their eyes. Athos tried to pull his hand away to reach for his dagger, but Aramis held him steady, “Porthos.”

Porthos quickly entered the room and slammed the door behind him. He took a breath and focused on the scene in front of him. Aramis with blood in his hair and on his face. Athos holding Aramis’ hands his shirt sleeve in tatters. The smell of blood in the air. The bandages. The overturned chair. He took a breath and nodded. Stepping into the room, he righted the chair and took another breath. He slowly knelt down on the other side of Aramis. He put a hand on the back of Aramis’ neck, “Brother?”

Athos felt the loss of his gaze as Aramis closed his eyes. Aramis leaned in to rest his forehead against Porthos’, “I thought for a moment ... I thought I was in Savoy, but I was not. Athos took me to a manor house instead.” Aramis opened his eyes to look back at Athos, “How?”

Athos took in their tones and touches, and gave a slight shrug to his shoulders. “I don’t know really. I just shared with you a memory. For some reason, with some people, they can be very clear,” he blushed and looked away thinking ‘They are so intimate. They are in love.’

Porthos looked from one man to the other, “Cornet told us what ‘appened. Right now, Treville is remindin’ the Red Guardsman that ‘e attacked one of the King’s Blue Cloaks and is ‘aving him sent to the Bastille. Funny, it was a bit garbled what with the broken teeth and all, but ‘e was babblin’ about flyin’ musketeers. Do you know anythin’ about that?”

“I did not fly. I merely jumped off the edge of Serge’s wagon. It was a perfect landing, however.” Aramis smiled softly at Athos. “Do you not agree, brother?”

Athos blinked at that, _brother_ , and smiled back, “It was a perfect landing. You were stunning.” Athos froze. Oh, he said the wrong thing. He ruined this. He made to stand. “My apologies. I should be leaving.”

Porthos smiled, “No one’s goin’ anywhere. Well, I am, to get fresh water and clean bandages. Athos will ya see if ya can clean Aramis up some? Oh, and Athos ... no worries, brother. He _is_ stunning.” Porthos gave him a wink and grabbed the basin and headed down to the Garrison’s well.

“I am, you know. People tell me so all the time.” Aramis grinned at Athos.

“You are what?” Athos croaked out still embarrassed and resolutely not making eye contact.

“Stunning.” Aramis reached out and gently grabbed Athos beard. He tugged it to turn Athos’ face to his. “See?”

Athos laughed for the first time in so long he couldn’t remember. “No, but perhaps after I clean you up.”

Athos stood and pulled Aramis up with him to sit on the bed. Athos took the last completely clean bandage from the table and used the pitcher to pour the remaining rainwater onto the cloth. He gestured to a spot next to Aramis and waited. Aramis smiled shyly at him and nodded. Although, he was not sure why, he sat down as lightly as he could.

“May I?” Athos gestured toward Aramis’ face.

“Yes, please.” Aramis voice came out soft and open.

Athos gently began wiping his blood off of Aramis’ cheek and ear. Aramis closed his eyes. Athos turned and folded the cloth as he wiped Aramis’ hair clean, his face, his ear. “Turn toward me a bit more so I can get the other side.” Aramis opened his eyes and did as requested. Athos felt he needed some kind of confirmation for his observations, “You and Porthos ...”

Aramis smiled and gazed into Athos’ eyes. Athos felt a wave of comfort, affection, and trust sweep over him. “He is mine, and I am his.”

Aramis held his gaze for a few more moments and then closed his eyes again. “I am very tired, My Mountain Man.”

My? He pushed that aside to think on later when he was alone ideally with wine. “Lie down on the bed. I can still clean you up.” Aramis laid on the bed resting a hand on Athos thigh. Athos inhaled softly at the touch and went to work removing the last traces of blood from Aramis’ face. He cupped Aramis cheek and gently turned his head as he needed.

Porthos returned with fresh water and clean bandages. He dipped one of the strips into the water and wrung it dry. Athos admired the strength in Porthos’ hands. The cloth did not drip at all when he traded his bloody one for the new one. Porthos busied himself putting Aramis’ kit back together and wiping down the table. Athos returned to gently wiping Aramis’ face and hair. 

“There, Aramis ... stunning,” the last word barely above a whisper.

Aramis looked up at Athos and for a moment Athos imagined he was staring into the sun. He blinked and shook his head. His hand was still cupping Aramis’ cheek to hold him steady. He realized he’d let his thumb rest on Aramis’ mouth gently caressing his lips. Aramis kissed it in a show of gratitude. Athos stilled for a moment, “I should be going.” He made to get up from the bed. Aramis squeezed his thigh.

“Please don’t. I would feel better knowing you are safe.”

“Athos,” Porthos interjected. “Why not take a seat for a bit? Cornet gave me a bottle of his own wine. ‘ave a drink with me while Aramis rests.” Porthos twisted the cork of the bottle out with his teeth and poured two glasses. “Besides, it looks like I need to bandage those stitches, eh?”

Athos looked at his arm in some surprise. He had forgotten the wound when Aramis became upset. He glanced down at the younger man who had already closed his eyes to sleep and moved toward the table.

Porthos pulled his main-gauche and began to cut away the rest of the tattered sleeve. He paused to admire Aramis’ work, “The man coulda been a seamstress,” he chuckled to himself. “‘ere, take a seat. Drink yer wine. This’ll only take a bit.” Athos obeyed without a second thought. Porthos pulled the matching chair to sit right beside him letting their knees touch; although, Porthos, himself, did not seem to notice.

Athos took a healthy swallow and watched as Porthos wound the white cloth around his arm and tied it off. 

“Is it too tight?”

Athos was caught a bit of guard. He had not had anyone offer him the level of care these two men had. It was a bit disconcerting. “It ... it is fine.”

“Good. Tell me,” Porthos locked eyes with Athos. “When I walked in, you were ‘olding Aramis’ ‘ands and telling him about a room. ‘e said ‘e was there, and you said ya can share memories. What was that all about?”

Athos took another healthy swallow and looked at Porthos. He saw nothing but curiosity and friendliness offered there so, “With some people, I can share a memory while touching them. If I do, it is like we are both right there in my memory. All of the men in my family can ... could ... do it.” Athos looked at Porthos again. His expression had turned thoughtful but not judgmental. “Would you like to see what I shared with Aramis?”

Porthos hesitated for a moment, “Ya ... if ya think it’ll work.”

Athos felt a growing fondness for this man, “Give me your hand.” He held out his own, and Porthos grasped it firmly but not painfully. “Close your eyes.

“In the manor where I grew up, there is a sewing room on the first floor. The room faces East to catch the morning sun ...”

Athos described the room as he had done for Aramis. Porthos’ breathing slowed a bit and his expression softened. Athos closed his eyes and kept talking until he was at the point about Mt Athos.” He opened his eyes, “Porthos?”

Porthos looked at him his gaze intent but friendly. “That was ... amazin’. ‘ow?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t work with everyone. It never worked with ... well, it doesn’t with everyone.” Athos reached for his wine and downed it in one swallow.

Porthos changed the subject a bit, “Does the ‘ouse still look like that? I mean, ya were what, ten? I would wish to see it.” Porthos closed his eyes and waited.

Athos realized he had never let go of Porthos hand. He wasn’t sure why he trusted Porthos enough to show him, but he closed his eyes as well.

“No, now it looks more like this ... dark and grey.” An adult Olivier dressed in wrinkled and stained silk led Porthos down the hallway past his father’s study still littered with unanswered correspondence toward the sewing room. “After my mother died, my ... my wife ... wanted to turn this room back into an actual sewing room, but I refused her. It was one of the only times, really. It would have been like erasing my mother.” The room was still airy and open and strewn with maps, but it felt neglected and a bit dusty as well. 

“It feels very sad and cold ‘ere,” Porthos adds his voice a bit hollow.

“Everyone has died you see. It is more of a mausoleum now.” Athos felt Porthos open his eyes, but he could not. He felt trapped and alone. He squeezed his eyes tight and let out a soft sob. He felt trapped and without air. He heard the scraping of wood against wood. Suddenly, there was a warm weight on the back of his neck, and a voice speaking directly into his ear--hushed and low.

“Ay, now. Easy. Jus’ breathe. You’re not there. You’re ‘ere in Aramis’ room with me. You’re in the Garrison. You’re ‘ome.” Porthos continued this litany for a few minutes until he felt Athos relax and breathe steadily.

Athos opened his eyes and looked right into Porthos’. He was so close to him he could feel Porthos’ breath on his cheek. “How? Everything just fell away until all I heard was your voice. I followed it back.”

“I dunno. It’s just somethin’ I can do,” he smiled echoing Athos’ earlier explanation.

Athos felt his eyes well up, and he blinked to hold the tears at bay. He started when he felt Porthos press his lips to his forehead whispering it was all fine while still firmly but gently holding his neck. Athos looked up at Porthos, and Porthos leaned it and gave a soft, chaste kiss to Athos’ scarred lips. 

“You’re all right.” Porthos whispered against Athos’ lips.

“Aramis?” Athos started to pull away.

Porthos held him still, “‘e kissed your ‘and, didn’t ‘e?”

Athos blushed, “Yes, but ...”

“Then I’m already behind. But, this is not an all or nothin’ thing. It can be whatever you want or don’t.” Porthos smiled against Athos’ lips and pulled away slowly. He removed both his hands from Athos body and sat back in his chair.

Instinctively, Athos reached back out for Porthos’ hand and grasped it.

Porthos smiled and intertwined their fingers. He used his other hand to top off the wine and lifted his glass in a toast, “To new friends. No, better. To new _brothers_.”

Athos clinked his glass to Porthos’ and took a drink. He remembered to breathe. He sat back in his chair as well making sure to keep his hand in Porthos’. There was a comfortable silence as they drank.

After awhile and in curiosity, Athos looked up from his wine, “So, how did you two meet?”

Porthos chuckled, “It’s a bit of a story; I call it, The Pirate and the Inn of the Prancing Pony.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think about the last of these campfire stories.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next are why I toyed with giving this story an Explicit rating, but the majority of the story is more Mature than Explicit.

Chapter 15

 

Athos’ story ended, and d’Artagnan watched as Porthos kissed Athos. He noticed Porthos hand had migrated up towards Athos’ crotch as he had told the story. Athos face was a bit flushed. Porthos continued the kiss for a few more moments and then gently pulled back his eyes promising more.

Porthos announced he would go find a few more logs for the fire. Stood up, adjusted himself with a grin toward Aramis and left the fire ring.

“So, d’Artagnan ... what did you think?”

Before he could answer Athos, Aramis softly interjected, “You forgot a part.”

D’Artagnan looked down at his brother as he realized his fingers were no longer combing through Aramis’ hair but rather gently rubbing circles on the side of his neck just under his ear. _Honestly._ “What did Athos forget?”

“Yes, brother. What did I forget?” Athos eyes were warm and amused as he focused on Aramis.

“May I?” At Athos nod, the marksman began, “About two months after that night, Athos and I were in the yard waiting for Porthos to return. My Captain had sent word that the King’s hunt had been successful in that Porthos was given his commission. He would return a true Musketeer. While we waited so that we could celebrate, and to help me with remembering, Athos began asking me how to say certain words and phrases in Spanish.”

“Oh, yes. You are right, _bien-aime_. I did forget that,” Athos added endless fondness evident in his voice. “I asked first: How do you say ‘table’ in Spanish?”

“La mesa,” Aramis responded.

“Chair”

“La cilla,” again, Aramis responded.

“I love you.”

“Te amo.”

“I love you,” Athos again asked, his voice a bit husky.

“Te amo.”

“I adore you.” Athos stood and extended his hands down to Aramis.

“Te adoro,” Aramis grasped Athos’ hands.

“I love you.” Athos pulled Aramis up into an embrace so tender and sweet d’Artagnan felt the need simultaneously to look away and keep staring.

“Te Amo,” Aramis whispered as he closed his eyes and slotted his body against Athos.

Athos held him still for a moment and then pulled away just enough so that their foreheads could touch. He breathed out their ritual mantra, “ _Te amo ... Te amo ... Te adoro ... Te amo._ ”

Aramis’ slowly opened his eyes and looked deeply into Athos’. He took a steadying breath, “I believe you.” He moved his hands to gently hold Athos’ head and kissed him.

This was a different kiss than d’Artagnan had seen before. This was not sexual but sensual. Not erotic but evocative. Athos responded in kind. It was as if his brothers were showing him the living embodiment of true romantic love without a hint of lust. He had never seen anything like it, and he found himself wanting to know this kind of devotion. D’Artagnan experienced a twinge of desire low in his belly. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Porthos standing above him.

“Let’s go do a final check on the ‘orses, eh?” Porthos asked offering him his hand.

D’Artagnan smiled at the way Porthos hand seemed to swallow his own as he let Porthos lead him to their mounts. “Do they do that with you, too?”

“What? Those kisses?” Porthos smiled. “I’ve watched them do that for hours. I last about five minutes before my ‘ands get minds a their own. I just don’t have the patience for it.”

As they checked their leads and gave each animal a bit of apple, Porthos paused, “Whelp?”

D’Artagnan found himself looking up at Porthos again as his brother paused, “Porthos?”

“Things are about to get a bit more intense, ya know? We don’t want you to feel forced to do or not do anything ya don’ want. You’re our brother, and we love you. And, we know you love Constance. So, if you want to move your bedroll away or I can ‘elp ya build another fire ring so that ya can’t see or ‘ear us ...” 

Porthos was studying his face. D’Artagnan wondered if he looked nervous. Suddenly, there seemed to be much at stake ... maybe everything. He would be surprised if he didn’t look nervous right now. He would be surprised if he was breathing right now.

Porthos seemed to sense his distress and held up one hand palm up, “May I?” When the Gascon nodded, Porthos gently put his hand on the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. D’Artagnan realized he agreed out of curiosity as much as need.

The world quieted. D’Artagnan closed his eyes and focused on Porthos voice ... on what he knew to be the truth.

“Would you like to be away from us for the night?” 

D’Artagnan shook his head no.

“Would you like to join us?”

Again, a shake no.

“Would you like to watch?”

D’Artagnan suddenly felt the need to tell the truth, “I already have.” He blushingly confessed.

He could hear the smile in Porthos voice, which had gone just a bit deeper, “‘ave ya now? Well, that will ‘ave to be a story for tomorrow night’s campfire, won’ it? Would you like to watch tonight?”

“Yes, please,” He breathed in sharply as he felt Porthos’ lips on his temple. He had never noticed Porthos scent before. It was a heady mix of oranges and smoke. His kiss lingered, soft and light.

“All right. I’m gonna take my hand away, now, but if you need it again, you jus’ ask.”

Nodding at the request, d’Artagnan opened his eyes and looked at Porthos’ open expression. Porthos took his hand again and walked him back to the campfire.

Their brothers were still kissing; their languid kisses now punctuated with the occasional whispered endearment, ear nibble, and neck nuzzle. Their hands sliding from each other’s faces to wrapping around waists or holding hips. 

Porthos picked up two bedrolls and moved them to a spot alongside the campfire that would offer the least obstructed view. “‘ow’s this?” 

“That’s fine,” d’Artagnan answered. He sat down on the blankets and removed his boots leaving him in his loose, dove-grey, linen shirt and black breeches.

“I meant what I said, brother. This is whatever ya want it to be--nothing more and nothing less.” Porthos walked back over to his lovers and placed a hand on the back of each of their necks. Both men slowly pulled apart; although, their eyes were still closed.

“Athos, would you like to tell us? Direct us, brother.” Porthos voice mellow and smooth against the soft crackle of the fire and the rhythmic insect sounds of the night.

D’Artagnan stretched out on his side on his bedroll and propped his head on his elbow. His stomach fluttered as he watched Athos lead Porthos to sit on the log perpendicular to d’Artagnan’s vantage point. 

Athos leaned in to give Porthos a much different kind of kiss than the ones he had given Aramis. These were pure passion. His tongue dove into Porthos’ mouth. Porthos responded in kind. Athos continued kissing as he opened Porthos shirt. He then pulled away a bit breathless. “Let me get Aramis.”

Aramis had been standing where he was left and watching. He moved Aramis to the other log, and he slowly opened Aramis’ impossibly still-white linen shirt puling it smoothly out of his grey breeches. “Take off your boots, _bien-aime_.” Aramis rolled the leather down and removed them easily.

Aramis again took Athos’ offered hand. He brought it to his mouth and kissed his knuckles while Athos walked him over to sit across Porthos’ lap so that his face would be toward d’Artagnan. Athos then took Aramis’ mouth in much the same way he had taken Porthos’. 

Athos ended the kiss by slowly pulling away. Aramis attempted to follow Athos’ lips--his eyes half-closed. Athos appreciation of Aramis’ desires was evident on his face, but he simply nodded his head toward Porthos. 

As Aramis pulled his eyes from Athos to turn toward Porthos, he paused to gaze at d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan gasped. _How could he not have noticed before?_ Aramis was breathtakingly handsome, stunning, dazzling. His lips were swollen and red, his eyes were almost black with want, and his white shirt was open revealing a scarred chest and muscled abdomen. 

The Musketeer licked his lips as he looked at d’Artagnan letting his legs fell open a bit. The Gascon could see his swollen need. _Was Aramis offering himself?_ He felt himself begin to harden. He let the hand not busy with holding up his head palm his growing erection, but forced himself to go slowly. He wanted this to last.

Aramis turned fully to Porthos, and they began to kiss with Aramis flicking his tongue teasingly in and out of Porthos’ mouth. Porthos laid his large hand on Aramis’ sternum and caressed up to his neck and down again in smooth strokes. 

D’Artagnan found himself fascinated watching the dark hand of one move up the olive-hued chest of the other and then going down farther every time. 

D’Artagnan took a sharp breath when he realized Porthos hand had stopped to open Aramis’ breeches releasing his hard cock. Like the rest of him, it too was perfect looking; he admired the long, somewhat slender and bowed-toward-his-belly member that could only belong to Aramis. He willed Porthos to stroke it, and he did, just a few times lightly, before returning to the full-torso caresses he’d started earlier. His downward stroke now stopping in the curly hair beneath Aramis’ belly.

Athos seemed to forcefully pull himself away from the same sight that was mesmerizing d’Artagnan. The older man gently put his hands on the necks of his lovers. He paused, took a deep, steadying breath, and said, “Remember the time in Condé-en-Brie, in the Marquis’ statue garden? It was during the autumnal equinox.” He heard Aramis soft moan and Porthos deep groan. “The trees were ablaze with color, and the fallen leaves crunched beneath our feet. The air smelled of freshly cut wood and apples.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _bien-aime_ means _beloved_


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

D’Artagnan heard Aramis’ soft moan and Porthos’ deep groan as Athos spoke, “The trees were ablaze with color, and the fallen leaves crunched beneath our feet. The air smelled of freshly cut wood and apples.

“The garden was deserted so we laid our bedrolls and cloaks on the ground near the garden wall, and Porthos sat down with his back against the wall. Aramis, you sat in his lap much as you are now, kissing him much as you are now.”

Porthos ended his kiss by licking Aramis’ lips, “I asked you if you wanted to suckle me.”

Aramis didn’t answer him with words. Instead, he began to nibble his way down Porthos neck occasionally stopping to kiss and lick away the sting of the bites. He let his body slide down into Porthos’ cradling arms one under his neck and the other over his hips.

Athos pulled Porthos’ burgundy-dyed shirt open to reveal his skin and letting his fingers slide over his exposed chest. Porthos shivered and his amber-colored nipple hardened. He put a hand on the back of Aramis’ head as his kisses brought him toward his goal. “That’s it. Right there. Latch on, Aramis. Suckle him. Suckle him.”

D’Artagnan could hear Aramis’ moan each time Athos used the word _suckle_. He could see Athos face flushed in the firelight; his eyes dark with desire as he whispered into Aramis’ ear. The expression on Porthos’ face flowed between grimaces of pain as Aramis sucked especially hard and waves of bliss when Aramis relaxed his mouth a bit and let his free hand stroke under Porthos’ shirt presumably to rub his other nipple.

Athos moved between kissing Porthos deep and long and whispering into Aramis’ ear.

This was a sight he had never seen before. Hell, he had never even dreamt anything like it. He imagined he heard Porthos telling Aramis he was his beautiful boy ... his beautiful baby. He did imagine that, didn’t he? He watched Athos reach down unlacing his own dark breeches to release his hard cock. It was thicker than Aramis’ but not as long and more straight than bowed.

D’Artagnan felt his lips open and his tongue cup within his mouth. He closed it so fast he heard his teeth snap shut. He was so aroused, and he felt so guilty. He wanted--so badly--to keep watching, but what of Constance?

 _”She will not fault you for this, child.”_ The voice inside his head made his teeth rattle, his bones ache, and his need soften.

His mamon had called it The Voice of Clarity. After he had asked when he was seven, and she admitted she heard it, too. She taught him to trust what is said as it had never steered her wrong; however, she did warn him to never discuss it. “Others would surely think you mad.” His mother told him not many had a helping voice and some had a hurting voice. “Best to keep it a secret.”

As he had since he was a child, he thought his question: Constance will not see this as a betrayal of our love?

 _”Love is infinite. Real love, true love, is never wrong and always powerful. Love can cross the barriers of time and space. Love is the oldest of all magics, child. It protects.”_ Protects against what? _What, I fear, is coming.”_

What?

_”When you and the tailor’s wife wish to have a child, tell her about this night. Your sons will be brave and strong.”_

Sons? Really? What? D’Artagnan’s head was spinning. His teeth and bones felt normal again, and he shook his head to clear his thoughts. The Voice was not an ever-present entity inside his mind. It seemed to have an agenda of it’s own and came and went as it pleased.

He opened his eyes and felt himself go hard again at the sight in front of him. It was so wonton ... so decadent ... so erotic.

Athos was still sitting beside them with a hand in Aramis’ hair tugging gently. He was whispering into Aramis’ ear loudly enough for Porthos to react. D’Artagnan could only make out some of the words, “Aramis ... beautiful boy ... beautiful baby ... Let Porthos ... fingers ...”

Aramis lips were still pressed agains Porthos’ chest suckling. His other hand stroked up Porthos’ body to caress his face. His lips. He let Porthos take his fingers into his mouth to do his own suckling. Aramis body turned out a bit at the waist away from Porthos giving d’Artagnan a much better view. Aramis’ hips began to rock.

Porthos eyes were half-closed as he gazed at Aramis. At Athos direction, he dragged the hand that was holding Aramis’ hip around to grasp his long, elegant member.

“Match Porthos ... take his cock ... rhythm ... so beautiful ... baby,” Athos seemed to have trouble concentrating. He ringed the base of his cock with his thumb and forefinger to stave off his spend.

Porthos began to stroke firmly in sync with the movement of his mouth around Aramis’ fingers and with Aramis mouth on his nipple.

“Taste it soon ... suckle his fingers ... like yours ... suckle.”

Aramis pulled farther away from his pirate’s body. He released Porthos’ nipple, arched his back, and bucked several times against Porthos’ strokes. Aramis’ spend shot out and covered Porthos’ hand and wrist. His body still convulsing even when no more would come. Through all of this he was silent staring into Porthos’ eyes.

Athos, in full voice, now, “Easy, Aramis. Easy, we’ve got you. You are so amazing. Do you want to see? Do you want to taste?”

Aramis’ eyes glazed over and his breath came in pants. He stilled his body and nodded.

Athos helped him to sit up and lean against Porthos chest with his head resting in the crook of his neck. “Porthos.”

Porthos offered Aramis his spend-covered hand and wrist. His voice deep and rumbling, “Clean me up, Aramis. Lick it all up. Don’t leave any behind. Not one drop.”

Aramis leaned forward and cupped Porthos’ hand with one of his own and used the other to steady Porthos’ elbow. Aramis licked out with just the tip of his tongue flicking it back into his mouth and tasting himself on the smooth inner forearm of his lover. He moaned and began to lave at Porthos’ wrist and the back of his hand, his tongue strokes long and slow.

D’Artagnan moaned as he realized Aramis was ... savoring the act? The taste? Both? He wasn’t sure. He felt himself flush and mirrored Athos’ action and ringed the base of his own cock, which he realized he had taken out at some point and stroked almost to completion.

Aramis was now lapping at Porthos’ cupped palm. When he had licked that clean, he moved to Porthos’ pinkie finger taking it all into his mouth and closing his lips around the base. He slowly slid his head up until he softly kissed the tip and moved to the next. When he finished that finger, he looked over to d’Artagnan and smiled shyly at him. For a moment, he looked so young. Then, d’Artagnan moaned as Aramis wrapped his lips around the base of Porthos middle finger and slowly slid his lips and tongue up to the tip never taking his eyes off of him. He kissed the tip again and moved to Porthos’ last finger.

D’Artagnan looked up to see Porthos kissing the side of Athos’ neck as Athos leaned his head back to expose more of himself to Porthos. Porthos nipped at Athos causing Athos to pull Aramis’ hair. Aramis ran his teeth over Porthos’ thumb making Porthos chuckle into the crook of Athos neck before kissing the mark he left there. The Gascon found himself yearning to feel that connected that interconnected.

So far, d’Artagnan reflected Aramis had been a mostly passive lover. That is not to say he was not mesmerizingly enticing in every way just that he didn’t seem to initiate any part of this encounter. This seemed at odds with the way that he knew Aramis. His brother was a man of action and adventure. He risked almost to the point of lunacy. He was a lethal warrior even more so than the others when it came right down to it.

In battle, Athos would brook no opposition, and his technique was always perfect. Porthos size and raw strength intimidated many attackers before the battle had barely began. During a fight, he could literally knock heads together.

On the surface, Aramis did not look intimidating. But when he was done shooting, and he chose to take his battle to the enemy, a look of confusion inevitably crossed his opponent’s faces; it was something about his expression. He had the sort of joyful determination a cat has right before it starts toying with a mouse. D’Artagnan was amazed at just how many ways Aramis knew to toy with his quarry.

Now, to d’Artagnan, it looked like things were about to change. He watched as Aramis turned and began to climb up Porthos to straddle him. Aramis plunged his mouth into Porthos’. It was messy and hungry. D’Artagnan began to stroke himself again.

“Aramis, would you like to keep suckling. I can see that Porthos would not be opposed,” Athos actually smirked at that.

“God, Aramis. I will beg if you like,” Porthos’ voice was raspy with need.

“ _Mon chéri_ , What is it you would like me to do?” Aramis teased between kisses.

“Please, put that lovely mouth around my cock,” Porthos implored as his hands stroked up and down Aramis’ back. “Take me all the way in and drink me down.”

“If you insist. Athos, will you help me with my breeches?” Athos moved behind Aramis and helped him remove them and his small clothes. Once that was completed, in one graceful movement, Aramis slid down Porthos’ front to kneel in between his legs.

Athos unlaced Porthos’ charcoal breeches while giving Aramis a plundering kiss of his own.

D’Artagnan inhaled sharply as Athos released Porthos’ member. Its size was proportional to Porthos’ body, but it was the biggest cock d’Artagnan had ever seen. It wasn’t just big; it looked powerful like the man himself. He could only see Aramis in profile now, but he found himself envying and fearing for Aramis’ mouth and jaw.

Aramis seemed to have no such qualms. He ran his tongue from base to tip several times while Porthos placed one hand in Aramis’ hair and the other cupped Athos’ cheek as he kissed him.

Aramis took in the rounded top of Porthos’ member, “Swirl your tongue like you did in the garden, Aramis.” Porthos groaned, “Yes, like that. Aramis, please. Take me all the way in. Can you? Please.”

Aramis rose up on his knees his thigh and calf muscles visible in the orange firelight. He paused for a moment looking up at Porthos and slowly in one movement took Porthos all the way in until his lips were buried in Porthos’ black curly hair at the base. Porthos’ eyes rolled back.

“Don’t move Porthos. You don’t want to hurt him. Let Aramis do the work,” Athos’ mouth was leaning into Porthos’ ear and his hand was on Porthos’ exposed skin caressing his belly.

Aramis began to move his head sliding his lips much as he had done to Porthos’ fingers. Before he made it to the top, he plunged down again fucking himself on Porthos’ cock--over and over.

The strength and control of these men, of his brothers, was hypnotic; although, Aramis seemed to be in the passive position again. This was different. Even from below, Aramis was in charge of this act, and he knew it. He’d placed his forearms on Porthos’ thighs and was continuing to impale himself sometimes faster sometimes slower until d’Artagnan saw Porthos tug at Aramis’ hair.

“If you wanna taste me, love, pull back.” Aramis slid up enough so that when Porthos’ came it was all in his mouth.

Aramis slowly slid his mouth off of Porthos and reached over to Athos abruptly yanking him by the shirt until they were face to face. Athos licked at Aramis’ mouth forcing his tongue in for the hungriest, messiest kiss d’Artagnan had ever seen. D’Artagnan quickly folded over the bedroll in front of him and spent. He seed spurting onto the grass in front of him.

“You are mine, now,” commanded Athos after licking Aramis’ mouth clean. “Come to me.”


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

 

“You are mine, now,” commanded Athos after licking Aramis’ mouth clean. “Come to me.”

“Yes, _mi amor,_ ” Aramis smoothly moved his lithe and supple body to kneel gracefully in front of Athos who had taken a seat on the other log. 

“No, up here. I want you to ride me. Porthos, prepare him please?” Athos never took his eyes off of Aramis. He helped him adjust on his lap so that his legs were straddling Athos’ thighs.

Porthos tucked himself back in and leaned over to Aramis. He kissed him tenderly, “That was, my love, amazin’.”

Aramis kissed him back, “Anything for you, _bien-aime._ ”

Porthos reached behind the log and pulled out a small clay pot with a cork stopper that he’d placed there after dinner. He used his teeth to remove the stopper and poured a small amount of oil onto his fingers and rubbed it in with his thumb. “Are you ready?”

Aramis nodded and went back to kissing Athos and emitting enticing moans as Porthos teasingly circled Aramis’ hole. Aramis kissed down Athos face and throat coming to a spot at the crook of his neck. 

D’Artagnan could see Aramis from the back, and he watched as Porthos gently inserted one finger inside Aramis. Aramis moaned into Athos’ neck. He tried to imagine what that must feel like for the marksman. Porthos had big hands and thick fingers. What did it feel like for Athos to have such a creature as Aramis wrapped around his body? For Porthos? To be inside one of the men he loved giving such pleasure. He groaned wishing he could be all three of his brothers at once.

He watched as Porthos pulled out one finger only to push back in with two. Aramis clutched at Athos who was sucking and biting at Aramis’ earlobe. 

Porthos flexed his hand, which made Aramis squirm and groan. Porthos moved his hand in and out curling his palm after each inward thrust. Aramis began keening and rocking back onto Porthos hand with each stroke. Porthos added another finger. Aramis stilled for a minute giving himself time to adjust. Athos was whispering to Aramis again, “... so good ... be ready ... around me ... ready?” Aramis nodded.

“Porthos, is he ready?” Athos voice was gravelly with need.

“He feels so hot and eager for you,” Porthos grinned as he removed his fingers from Aramis’ ass. 

Aramis went up on his knees and lowered himself onto Athos cock. “My Mountain Man, you are like stone.”

Athos pulled Aramis to him, “I have always loved it when you call me that, and I am impossibly hard for you.” Athos kissed him messy and wet. “Ride me, _mon ange._ Ride me.”

Aramis used his thigh muscles to impale himself over and over on Athos cock.

“You two are so beautiful. So stunnin’,” Porthos breathed palming himself.

After several minutes of a steady pace set by Aramis as he posted on Athos, d’Artagnan became convinced he would never be able to watch Aramis ride his horse again without imagining this sight. To add to this image, Aramis arched his back.

Porthos spoke to both of them, “Athos, he is almost ready. You know how he likes to spend at the same time. Are you close?” Porthos moved near to them and put his hands on the back of both of their necks.

Athos must be too far gone to speak, but d’Artagnan saw his hands tighten around Aramis’ hips hard enough to leave bruises. 

“That’s it. You’re both ready. Ya can feel the dam about to burst, can’t ya? Go on. Let it go. Let it wash over ya.” Porthos repeated these thoughts several times and then Athos looked up to the heavens and cried out Aramis’ name. “Can ya feel him inside you, love? All of his love so hot and deep inside ya.” Aramis, ever silent in this, arched farther back seeming to know Porthos’ arms would be there to catch him and spent across Athos chest. Athos’ eyelashes fluttered and he moaned out, “Oh, _mon ange._ ”

Porthos pulled out a clean bandana, also stored behind the log, and wiped up Athos and Aramis so that the older man could pull Aramis into his arms. The brothers clung to each other for a long moment until Aramis stilled his body and Athos could catch his breath. Aramis wiggled back a bit, cupped Athos’ neck, and leaned into pepper his face with kisses. Athos chuckled, a sound d’Artagnan was almost positive he had never heard before tonight.

The next thing he knew, Porthos was leading Aramis over to the bedroll in front of d’Artagnan flipping it back in place and saying, “I ‘ope you don’t mind. He didn’t want ya to be alone.”

Aramis laid down on the blankets, and smiled up at Porthos as he placed a blanket carefully over his still naked lower half. “Jus’ put a hand on his chest for a few. He’s still a bit blissful, ya know?” 

Aramis put his arms around the older man’s neck pulling him close to whisper something in his ear that d’Artagnan knew he was not meant to hear.

Porthos pressed his forehead to Aramis’ his expression impossibly soft. He pulled back to look into Aramis’ eyes. “I will be that to ya for as long as you’ll have me, love.”

“Then, always. I believe you, My Pirate.” Aramis gently pressed his lips to Porthos’ and released him to lie back down.

D’Artagnan did as he was told and laid his hand onto Aramis’ chest rubbing gentle circles on his skin. Aramis turned to d’Artagnan. His eyes were hazy and his expression had a dreamlike quality to it. 

Porthos smiled at the two of them, “We’ll be continuin’ awhile longer. Keep watchin’ if ya like.” He headed back to Athos.

The Gascon nodded, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Aramis. Hesitantly, he spoke, “You were breathtaking. How do you feel?”

Aramis smiled at him, “Completely at peace as I always do with them.” Aramis closed his eyes and placed a splayed hand over his own stomach. D’Artagnan saw he’d pushed the blanket down to expose the skin below his navel. D’Artagnan noticed Aramis had placed his other hand loosely around his bicep sweeping up and down. He was truly a tactile man.

D’Artagnan began to glide his hand across Aramis’ front from neck to belly as he had seen Porthos do. He let his hands move to stroke the older man’s sides and arms from shoulder to finger tips paying special attention to the toned muscles on the side of Aramis’ abdomen and the soft skin at the inside of his wrist. “I hope this is alright. I cannot seem to stop touching you.”

Aramis slowly opened his eyes to him. “Oh, My Whelp, please never stop.” Aramis put a hand on d’Artagnan’s cheek and gently tugged his face down so close that he could feel the marksman’s breath on his lips. “Kiss me.”

Shy and stammering, d’Artagnan responded, “I ... I have never ... not with a man.” He felt himself blushing.

“Do not worry, _mon cher ami,_ it is much like kissing a woman ... only hairier.” 

D’Artagnan huffed and felt himself drawn irresistibly into Aramis’ answering smile. He closed his eyes as their lips meet. It was not as soft as a woman’s, and it _was_ much hairier. It was also endlessly tender and sweet. He opened his mouth a bit and heard Aramis sigh as their tongues tentatively met and fluttered against each other.

After what could have been minutes or hours, Aramis pulls back just enough to whisper, “My Whelp, you are a source of endless wonder, and I fear I could drown here in your arms. Please always hold me as you are now so I will never know the loss of you.”

The Gascon was speechless at that. Aramis pressed his forehead to d’Artagnan’s temple and gave his cheek a lingering kiss. His expression fond and satisfied. The marksman rolled onto his side pressing his back to the younger man’s torso. D’Artagnan reflexively wrapped an arm around Aramis’ chest holding him close. He was taller than Aramis so he can still see and sigh at the lovely vision that greeted them from across the campfire. 

He pressed his lips into Aramis’ curly, mussed up hair and inhaled the heady scents of sandalwood and jasmine that he always associated with his brother.

“D’Artagnan, they love each other so much. Can you not tell? Look at how Porthos holds onto Athos as he leans back into him. How his arms embrace him keeping him safe. How Athos is lost in the feel of the cocoon Porthos has created for him, and how he moans out his pleasure.” 

Aramis wrapped his arms around the Gascon’s. “Now, Athos is telling Porthos how full he feels, how perfectly they fit together. Porthos won’t be able to answer here. Instead, he will plunge into Athos’ mouth with his tongue and keep moving his hands on Athos as he bounces him on his lap. There. Do you see?” 

He turned his head slightly back toward d’Artagnan, “It feels so good when he does that.”

He looked back, “Athos is hard again. See how he takes himself in hand. Aren’t his fingers lovely holding his own cock? Do you not wish your mouth was around it?”

D’Artagnan found it difficult not to pant. “Mother of God, Aramis. I have always known you were good with words, but ...” 

Aramis laughed and brought one of the Gascon’s hands to his mouth. He kissed the knuckles and rolled back toward him. “D’Artagnan, how would you like the rest of this night to be? Do you want to keep watching? Do you want to keep kissing me? Do you want more? Less?”

In an effort to hold Aramis tighter, he accidentally brushed his fingers over one of the marksman’s hardened nipples.

“Do that again, My Whelp.”

D’Artagnan complied and felt himself harden against the shivering angel in his arms. “You like that.”

Aramis answered by laying his head back onto the younger man’s shoulder and arching his chest toward d’Artagnan’s fingers.

He circled his index finger around his brother’s nipple, and he felt Aramis tremble again in his arms. He pressed their cheeks together and was overcome with what? It was not lust. It was ... 

“Oh, Aramis,” he whispered. “I want ... I need ...” He saw Aramis come back to himself. 

“What brother? If it is mine to give, it is yours to take.” Aramis extricated himself from d’Artagnan’s tight hold to roll onto his back and look up at him. He reached a hand up to cup his the side of his neck.

“All I have seen tonight is ... You are all so ... And, I do want all of these things ...”

“But not right now? Do not be troubled. We meant it when we said this is as much or as little as you want. It changes nothing about the way we feel for you. You are now and will always be our brother.”

D’Artagnan shook his head frustrated that he could not seem to speak his need. He took a calming breath, “No, I mean, I know that your words are true. What I want ... need ... is well, much more simple than that; yet, I find myself unable to ask.” He closed his eyes finding it hard to look into Aramis’ eyes. His concerned, warm, mesmerizing eyes.

“Nothing you request from me could ever be wrong. I know you d’Artagnan. I know this to be right. Ask me, brother.” 

He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “I want to hold you. Just that. Our skin touching. My arms around you keeping you safe. I want to feel your heartbeat against my chest and your fingers entwined with mine. I want to bury my face in your mop of hair and breathe in your scent. I want all these things right now more than anything else.” Squeezing his eyes closed he started to pull away ahead of what he was sure would be Aramis’ refusal.

“Open your eyes, My Whelp. See me and know my truth.” 

D’Artagnan did as he was bid. He opened his eyes to an amber gaze of such warmth and utter fondness, and he found he could not help but pull him closer. 

“I would be honored if you would hold me, keep me safe, let me lay the length of my body against yours and feel your skin against mine.”

He could see that Aramis’ eyes glistened and locked onto his. “No, I did not meant to upset you. Please ...” He reached out to cup Aramis’ cheek.

“You don’t understand, brother. I have been wanted by a great many people, but only a very few have ever asked me for that above all else.” Aramis pulled d’Artagnan’s palm from his cheek and placed a soft kiss on it. “Would you like me the way I was with my back to you?”

His own eyes felt wet in response, “I should like to see your face. Be able to touch your lips. I want to feel your beard in the crook of my neck, brother.”

Aramis stared at him for a moment and d’Artagnan felt soft waves of emotion wash over him. He gently pushed down on his shoulders so that he was flat on his back. The marksman smiled and draped himself halfway over d’Artagnan. He tangled their legs together and tucked his face into d’Artagnan’s neck. He laid his hand on the younger man’s chest over his heart. 

D’Artagnan rested his head against Aramis’ thick messy hair, and inhaled deeply. “It is of endless interest to me how the three of your scents are so different and so you.”

Aramis chuckled. “Your sense of smell is renown in the regiment, brother. That would seem to be unfortunate considering we live in Paris and it is almost the Summer Equinox. Tell me, what are our scents like”

D’Artagnan smiled into Aramis’ curls, “Porthos is oranges and smoke. Athos is grapes and leather.” He inhaled deeply, “You are sandalwood and jasmine.”

Aramis pressed his nose behind d’Artagnan’s ear and breathed in. “My sense of smell is not nearly as good as my eyesight, but you seem to be apples and ... pepper?”

“My mother used to say that was why I am so fiery. The spice makes me spicy.”

“You are a passionate man, my friend. It was my first indication that you would do well among us as we are passionate men as well.” Aramis inhaled deeply again, and d’Artagnan felt Aramis’ cock twitch against his hip. 

This man was so responsive. He needed to be kept safe. Aroused, d’Artagnan held him tighter.

Aramis lifted his head up to see d’Artagnan. He licked his lips and brushed his mouth against the whelp’s. 

The Gascon sensed endless possibilities in the flickering of that beautiful mouth against his own. He smiled as he noticed both desire and exhaustion in the sharpshooter’s eyes. “I would like to hold you like this while you find your rest in my arms, brother. Would you let me do that?”

Aramis pressed his lips chastely against d’Artagnan’s and nodded, “Anything. I would let you do anything.” He laid his head back down into the crook of his brother’s neck and kissed his collarbone. 

D’Artagnan vowed to contemplate Aramis’ last declaration while they rode tomorrow. Tonight, he chose to lose himself in the crackling sounds of the campfire, the heartwarming sight of Athos and Porthos nuzzling each other, and the marvelous feel of Aramis sleeping safely in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _mon ange_ means my angel


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the plot finally moves a bit.

Chapter 18

 

_Thwack ... Thwack ... Thwack_

Someone groaned. Porthos slowly opened his eyes to see pinkish rays of light gently teasing the night sky. It was barely twilight. Last night, he dragged his bedroll next to Aramis and crawled in while Athos took the other side of d’Artagnan. They had moved in as close as they could and linked their hands over the tops of their brothers. It had been warm and cozy. Now, he was cold he realized because the marksman was no longer beside him.

_Thwack ... Thwack ... Thwack_

“Porthos, make him stop,” groaned Athos again.

D’Artagnan merely grunted and rolled toward Athos.

Porthos chuckled. “Alright, alright. I know how ya’ two delicate flowers need yer beauty sleep.” He slid out of his bedroll and tugged on his boots. Turning to check on his brothers, he laughed again. All he could see of Athos was a shock of brown hair sticking out from under the blanket. Of d’Artagnan, there was nothing showing above the blanket, but there was a lump pressed against the bump that was Athos--so there was that. He smiled to himself. He was all in favor of this development ... this closeness.

Gracefully, Porthos stood up in one motion and scanned the grove. It was still dark, but he could make out the shape of a man in the spot farthest from both the horses and their campfire. At least Aramis was trying to be considerate. He stretched his arms to the sky and rolled his neck and shoulders. 

_Thwack ... Thwack ... Thwack_

As he walked toward his brother, Porthos noticed Aramis’ stance as his knives hit a perfectly innocent tree. As purely technical as Athos was with a rapier, the same could be said of Aramis and a knife. Cornet and Marsac used to say the accuracy of a throw depends on the alignment of the torso and the smooth practice of the arm movements. Aramis’ line and stance were perfect.

Porthos trained with all three musketeers; although, he was not as elegant as Cornet and Marsac had been, or as Aramis was. He did; however, get the job done. Frankly, he preferred close-up knife fights to the distance required to make a throw worthwhile.

Certainly Aramis could handle himself in a knife fight, but as with his pistols, he preferred to start by throwing and then enter into the fray. Porthos asked Marsac about it once. He told him that Aramis preferred to size up his opponents always convinced that the first physical contact could determine the outcome of the entire fight.

_Thwack ... Thwack ... Thwack_

“Hey, Aramis. Yer brothers are still trying to git their beauty sleep. Can’t ya hold off for a bit?” Porthos noticed an array of knives lain out around him. Without a sound, Aramis had managed to gather every knife in camp including the one Athos stashed under his bedroll.

“Our brothers are already as handsome as can be.” He turned to look at Porthos. “You remember what Cornet always said.”

“You will not always be so lucky as to be attacked at midmorning on a cloudy day in the Garrison. You must practice at all times of day and night in all conditions so that you are always prepared.” Porthos and Aramis recited this particular mantra together perfectly. Both men laughed.

“I do miss that man.” Porthos added.

“He was a soldier’s soldier.” Aramis held his crucifix and crossed himself. “May he rest in peace.”

“‘ow about we give that tree a rest, and sharpen all these blades until the princesses wake up.”

Aramis laughed, “If you insist. I will get the supplies. I notice you banked the fire last night. Would you like to bring it back to life? Our brothers as the late risers can cook breakfast and clean up.” Porthos knew this was one of Aramis’ favorite musketeer traditions as he was always the first up.

“Ya know we ‘ave to eat what they cook, right?” Porthos cringed at the thought of Athos touching a pan.

“Tell d’Artagnan to cook. He’s not half bad.”

This perked Porthos back up and he stretched his shoulders by reaching up and out. “‘urry, then. After last night, I’m starvin’.”

Aramis walked into Porthos’ open arms.

“Love?” Morning Aramis was just as inviting as evening Aramis so he wrapped his arms around him and waited.

“I enjoyed my time with you last night very much, My Pirate. You made me feel quite loved. Especially ...” Aramis trailed hands down Porthos’ chest over his nipples. Porthos flinched. “Are you tender there?” Porthos nodded and nuzzled Aramis’ ear. “I have some balm in my saddlebag. I will rub it in before we leave.

Aramis looked up at Porthos who could not resist pressing a kiss against those lovely lips. “As you should.” He licked his way in to deepen the kiss. When he pulled back, “We saw you with d’Artagnan. When you were facing us, an’ the Whelp had ‘is arms around your bare chest ... and you leaned back to kiss ‘im. That was a beautiful sight.” Porthos closed his eyes at the memory and slid his hands down to encircle Aramis’ hips and back.

“Porthos, he was ... I offered him anything. He just wanted to hold me. Just that.” Aramis leaned in for another kiss.

“He cherished you. The Pup never ceases to amaze, does he? Do you think he did it for you because he thought you’d like that?” He nuzzled into Aramis’ ear.

“No, I think it was for him. He truly wanted to hold me. He was intrigued by what he saw of you two together.” Aramis kissed the side of Porthos’ neck. “You were cocooning Athos in your arms. I could tell he felt so full.” Aramis sighed against Porthos’ lips. 

Porthos smiled as Aramis nuzzled down his neck and nosed his shirt aside. He felt a gentle kiss on his well-used nipple and a tongue fondle the still-swollen tip. “Oh, my beautiful baby. Do you still need ...?” Rarely could Aramis bring himself to say the word out loud except in jest preferring to depend on his brothers to understand so Porthos was surprised to feel him mouth it against his chest. “Aramis?”

Reluctantly, Aramis pulled back and lifted his eyes to him. “I am fine. Just feeling clingy for some reason. Come _mon cheri._ Let us sharpen knives.”

Porthos found he did not want to let Aramis go--not that he ever did--but especially not right now when he admitted to feeling needy. He felt a wave of protectiveness wash over him. He had learned over the years that with his lovers it was best to say what he was thinking. “I don’t want to let you go. I want to keep you safe.”

Aramis feigned annoyance. “Honestly, I am not a china doll, Porthos. I can take care of myself. Besides, I am locked in your arms. How much safer can I be?” 

“I know, and I’m not implying you can’t. Just telling you how I feel, all right?” Reluctantly, Porthos release his lover.

Nothing if not mercurial, Aramis flashed him a brilliant smile, “Well, you can tell me again tonight. If you can catch me, that is.” Before Porthos could answer, he turned around, picked up the knives, and shot off toward the campfire.

Porthos considered tackling him to the ground and taking him--right there down in the grass and wildflowers, but decided to wait until this evening. Then, after he wrestled him to the ground, maybe he would blindfold him with Athos’ scarf.

 

To Porthos’ viewpoint, breakfast was adequate not withstanding Athos griping that technically he had been the second person up so Porthos should be cleaning. Porthos had laughed at that, “You have to actually get up for it to count, love.” He was gifted with one of the most magnificent and haughtiest glares he had seen in a long time for that.

D’Artagnan jogged back to the campsite, “We have a problem. Minuit is lame. I don’t understand it. He was fine last night.”

Athos stopped packing up their supplies, “The other horses?”

“They are fine. Minuit will not be able to take a rider, though. Or supplies. Do we ride double?”

Porthos found himself frowning at this. It would slow them down. 

Apparently, his brothers agreed as Athos shook his head.

Aramis spoke up, “I can stay with d’Artagnan while you two go on. If you are not delayed, you can be back here tomorrow by dinner time. Perhaps his horse will be better by then.”

Athos nodded, “Splitting up is never ideal, but it is a better choice than leaving someone alone.”

Porthos opened his mouth to object but stopped when Aramis put a hand on his arm. “The receipt mentions Athos by name so he must go. And, who better to protect him and the king’s gift than you, brother?”

Porthos felt a twinge on his forehead where the crocodile glyph marked him. He did not like either choice, but decided Aramis would be safer here in the grove than on the road. He could keep Athos safe. After all, Athos had a sense of self-preservation--something often lacking in their sharpshooter. Besides, it was just an exchange of coin for sword. Nothing to worry about, really. “All right. I don’t like it, but I understand.”

“Good man.” Aramis added patting his arm. “We will be fine. And, we _can_ defend ourselves. Not that we will need to, right Whelp?”

“No, of course not.” D’Artagnan looked down.

“My Whelp, did you cause your horse to turn up lame?” Aramis smiled at the Gascon.

“No.” 

“Then do not look so guilty. It is not your fault. A musketeer must be flexible. He must adapt to any situation. Even one that forces us to spend another day and night in a lovely grove with a babbling brook and plenty of room to practice.”

Porthos chuckled at d’Artagnan’s groan. Aramis loved to practice almost as much as he loved to clean guns and sharpen knives. D’Artagnan, with the attention span of all energetic young men, did not.

 

The musketeers, with practiced ease, moved around the camp silently dividing up supplies and food. It was decided that Porthos and Athos would spend a night at the small village where they were to meet the swordmaker so they took only emergency provisions leaving the rest to those left behind.

When finished, d’Artagnan brought over their saddled horses. Porthos watched Athos grasp The Whelp’s forearm and lean in for a quick hug and a surprise kiss on the cheek. Next, Porthos grabbed him into a bear hug and whispered in his ear, “Take care of each other. Safe or not, don’ let yer guard down.” He finished by pressing his lips to his temple. The Gascon looked a bit startled at these new and more intimate farewells.

Porthos turned to say goodbye to his lover and was pleased to see Athos and Aramis clutching each other’s shirt fronts. The brothers’ foreheads were pressed together. Their eyes locked onto each other when Athos whispered, “ _Te amo ... Te amo ... Te adoro ... Te amo."_

Aramis responded, “I believe you.” He gave Athos a chaste kiss and sweet smile, which Athos returned in kind. They stepped apart, and Aramis turned right into Porthos’ arms. 

Porthos curled his arms around Aramis and drew him in for a decidedly unchaste kiss. He pulled his head back, and Aramis lowered his forehead to rest it on Porthos broad shoulder. 

He was panting slightly. “That ... was not fair.” 

Porthos smiled at him and stepped back. “Yeah, it was. Please try to be safe, love.”

The two older men mounted their horses, gave a final wave, and headed toward their rendezvous. 

D’Artagnan turned toward Aramis asking, “So, what should we do now?” He groaned. Aramis was standing next to a pile of knives. 

“Let’s throw, brother. There is a tree at the edge of the grove that for some reason I find highly irritating. I believe it is time to teach it some manners.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They spend their last full day in a world familiar so differently ... and apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this out. I decided to break one large chapter into two more manageable ones. I don't love the stopping point here, but ...

Chapter 19

 

They practiced for several hours maiming yet another tree in the process. D’Artagnan would admit the first tree was highly annoying, but the second tree, “What did that tree ever do to you?”

“Oh, brother. Nothing. The tree is innocent. It is simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

D’Artagnan admired Aramis’ smooth release of two knives in opposite directions.

_ThwaThwack_

The Gascon was not surprised to see the glints of metal indicating a knife buried in each tree. What surprised him now and for the past few hours was the ferocity in Aramis’ throws. The knives weren’t just stuck in at the tip; they were embedded halfway to the hilt every time. When he questioned Aramis, his response was, “Don’t throw unless you mean it.”

D’Artagnan did mean it and had been practicing. He could mimic the body motions, and he felt his alignment was good. He was having trouble throwing with the strength involved to actually embed the knives as Aramis had. His left-handed throws were only sticking about half the time.

“Keep practicing, brother. The strength will come.”

Both men were covered in a sheen of sweat as they practiced hurling knives at the local flora. “Aramis, we’ve been at this for hours. Aren’t you hot?”

Aramis laughed pulling a handkerchief out to wipe his brow, “Yes, I am hot, Whelp. You are our best hunter of wild game. Why don’t you set out some snares to catch our dinner, and I will sharpen the knives and put them away? Then, we can bathe in our very own babbling brook.”

D’Artagnan smiled at the marksman’s easy delegation of camp chores; his style was so different from their brothers.

Athos dryly issued commands and trusted that his orders were being followed--unless a soldier had proven to be untrustworthy. D’Artagnan sincerely hoped he would never be on the receiving end of _those_ commands. Athos was heartless with the dishonest and had been known to drive grown men to tears.

Porthos preferred to do the hardest work himself letting others fill in around him. He remembered who pitched in and would reward them with additional spars and pointers when practicing in the Garrison.

Aramis, even though he should--by rights--outrank all but the Captain rarely issued orders to other musketeers. Generally, he deferred to Athos, except when he vehemently disagreed or was trying to protect his brothers. When he did find himself in charge, he assigned jobs by tailoring the task to the musketeer based on a perceived skill or the need to develop one. He gave himself tasks as well and made sure that he stayed busy while others were working.

“I’ll be done before you, Aramis,” d’Artagnan teased.

“Well, let’s make it interesting. Loser has to wash the winner’s back.” Aramis countered a grin lighting his face.

“Deal.”

****************

Porthos rode a bit ahead of him eager to reach the inn and collect the king’s gift as soon as possible. He knew Porthos did not like to leave his brothers unprotected. Not that Aramis and d’Artagnan couldn’t take care of themselves. They could.

Aramis was a consummate soldier and adept at disarming, defeating, and/or potentially dismembering an enemy depending on his choice of available weapons. D’Artagnan, though not as experienced as Aramis--and, really, of the current roster of Musketeers, only Treville could say he was more experienced than Aramis--was a gifted swordsman and a passionate fighter. They would be fine.

Athos prodded his horse into a trot not out of worry but rather out of longing; he supposed. He longed to hold Aramis in his arms again, order him onto his lap as he did last night, and bounce him on his cock while d’Artagnan and Porthos watched. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He knew from experience that hardening on horseback was never a good idea.

D’Artagnan suddenly sprang to mind again. Athos let his thoughts drift to this new addition to their brotherhood. Granted, The Whelp had been riding with them for well over a year now, but they had never allowed him to be a part of the more intimate aspects of their personal relationship until now. He was not sure what had changed, but it felt natural last night to all three of them. Lord, he was breathtaking with Aramis.

When they sat at his feet near the campfire, and d’Artagnan ran his hands through Aramis’ hair, and Aramis stroked the boy’s calf ... Athos wanted to fall into both their arms at once. Thank god for Porthos distracting him--grounding him--or he surely would have embarrassed himself.

Even now he could feel himself flushing at the remembered sight of d’Artagnan’s arms wrapped around Aramis’ chest while Aramis twisted at his waist revealing his half-hardened cock as he kissed the boy over his shoulder. D’Artagnan’s fingers teasing Aramis’ nipples. He knew what that did to Aramis.

“Yer thinking’ about’m aren’t ya?” Porthos had slowed letting Athos catch up to ride beside him. He grabbed his hand and squeezed it almost to the point of pain.

Athos laced their fingers together, “I can’t help it. They were so lovely together, and Aramis with us ...”

Porthos smiled, “Yeah, they were weren’t they? All the more reason to get this done and get back to’em. Dontcha’ think? Besides, I’m gettin’ ideas seeing you on Roger, there, gettin’ all hot and bothered.”

“What?” incredulous, Athos looked up through his lashes at his lover.

“Oh, yeah. I can see you riding Roger, bareback, and buck naked. I think I might grab you over to my horse and have my way with ya’. Whatcha’ think about that?”

Athos knew he had turned bright red and not due to the midday sun, “You can’t be serious.”

“Yes, I can. Maybe I have you ride in front wit’ yer back to me so I can reach around. Stroke ya until ya spend. Or, maybe, I have you face me so I can let myself out and ...”

“Good lord! We are out in the open.” Athos released Porthos hand and squeezed his knees together bringing Roger to a fast trot.

Athos knew Porthos was goading him to get him to go faster, but Christ Almighty! Were the things Porthos described even possible? As he felt himself calm down and regain his equilibrium, he stopped to consider his brother’s desire. Porthos was not one to waste time fantasizing about the unlikely or unwanted. Perhaps for his birthday? He made a mental note to discuss it with Aramis at his soonest opportunity. If there was a way to do it, Aramis would know. He could hear Porthos bellowing laugh as he caught up with him.

****************

The sun-dappled water of the stream cooled their overheated skin and provided ample amounts of smooth black pebbles they used to rub themselves clean. They kneeled in the water near the opposite shoreline from their camp. Their side of the stream was sandy; this side was lined with large, smooth stones warming in the afternoon light.

“D’Artagnan, let me get your back.”

Obediently, d’Artagnan turned himself around and kneeled into a slowly swirling eddy. He sensed Aramis kneeling behind him. Aramis cupped water into his hands and released it across his shoulders raising goosebumps up and down his arms.

“Are you too cold, brother?” Aramis asked as he gathered some pebbles into both cupped palms and began to rub them against the muscles along his spine.

“No, no I’m not cold. That feels very good.” Aramis’ hands gently pushed his shoulder blades forward bending him over enough so that he could see his reflection in the clear water. He sank both hands into the stream bed bracing himself.

He heard the pebbles plop into the water as Aramis released them in favor of using his finger tips to press expertly against the well-used throwing muscles that knotted along his back. Aramis hummed softly as he worked, and d’Artagnan found himself lulled. Aramis, always sensitive to the moods of his brothers, began to sing, softly, as if to a child. The Gascon smiled to himself. Aramis’ voice, like the rest of him, was tantalizingly enticing--a pure baritone.

“What are you singing?”

Aramis worked the heel of his hands in long smooth strokes along his back, “It is a Spanish lullaby. I ... I think my mother used to sing it to me. I mean ... I think she was my mother; although, in my memories, she never seems to be with my father.”

D’Artagnan breathed in as Aramis worked a particularly unforgiving knot below his left shoulder blade, “Your father was French, and your mother was Spanish. Is that right?”

Aramis rubbed his hands together to generate some heat and then pressed them both against the tight muscle. “Yes, that is what My Captain tells me, and it feels correct. However ...”

“However?” He found himself pressing back into his brother’s hands. He closed his eyes.

Aramis gave him an embarrassed half laugh, “Does any soldier tell their commanding officer everything about themselves?”

“No, I suppose not,” a soft moan escaped him as Aramis switched to rubbing up and down his spine. The marksman’s calloused hands were pleasantly scratchy on his skin--not at all like a woman’s. He brought his hands up and over d’Artagnan’s shoulders and down his arms causing him to lean his scarred chest against his back. Aramis stayed like that for a moment.

His older brother’s hands rested on his forearms. D’Artagnan felt lips gently kissing the side of his neck. He tipped his head toward his shoulder offering him his throat. He was rewarded with additional soft kisses and nibbles. He moaned again as Aramis dragged his hands back up his arms.

“Come, let’s sit on the shore and dry off in the sun,” They climbed onto the gray rocks and laid down on their backs. The sides of their heads touched as they stretched out their legs.

D’Artagnan marveled at his own feeling of peace. Here he was naked lying out in the open with another man, also naked, and he was content. He peeked over at Aramis. He was truly a living Greek sculpture of the perfect male form with the addition of his battle scars. However, to the Gascon, the scars made him human. They made him real and touchable. He reached out his fingers to feather them over the older man’s knuckles.

Aramis, his eyes closed, didn’t say a word. He simply smiled and intertwined their fingers. D’Artagnan closed his eyes and reveled in the heat of the stone against his back, the warmth of the sun on his face, and the comfort of his brother at his side.

****************

After several more hours, they found themselves in a tiny village trisected by a crossroads.

“So, where is this Inn at the Crossroads?” he asked.

Athos responded, “At the crossroads one would assume,” as he slowed Roger down to a walk.

“We’re at the crossroads. We’re in the center of the village. In a few more minutes, we’ll be leaving the village. Which one o’ these buildings looks like an inn to you?”

“You must be hungry to be so grumpy,” Athos smirked at him.

“I am hungry, sorry. Which one o’ these sad, little buildings is the inn?” Porthos gestured to a small group of one-story wooden structures long since turned gray and dismal.

“I’m guessing the one with the sad, little stables attached to the side,” Athos dismounted and walked his horse to a skinny stable boy who was sitting on a hay bale crunching on an apple. He was colt-like--all arms and legs. He slid off the bale and took a moment to find his feet as if they had grown some while he was eating.

“Are there any rooms available for the night?”

“Probably. There almost always are. Want me to take both horses?” The boy was already reaching for the reins as he fed Roger the rest of his apple.

“Yeah, that’d be good. Watch yer fingers. These chargers can be a bit feisty.” Porthos warned.

“You are musketeers,” the boy smiled and tucked a strand of dirty red hair behind his ear. “I’ll take good care of’em. I promise.” He paused to let the soldiers remove their saddle bags and bedrolls. When the men had their belongings, he led the horses into the stable. Athos was glad it was summer as the structure looked to be so full of cracks and knotholes it would hardly be safe in the winter.

The men walked into the inn pleasantly surprised that the inside was clean and cool. Several tables were fanned out from the fire place angled to get the most heat when a fire was going.

There was only one other customer in the place. He was a merchant by the look of him. He was dressed for travel and had the expression of a man who had come to the recent conclusion that he did not enjoy it much. He was drinking a cup of wine and picking at a plate of cheese and bread. A long, wrapped package lay across the table; his hand never straying far from it.

“That must be our sword maker. Why don’t I make our introductions while you secure us a room for the night?” Athos murmured his command and headed toward the table without waiting for an acknowledgment.

Porthos nodded and headed toward the barkeep. When he reached the bar, he leaned over it and knocked on the wood, “Have you a room for the night?”

The barkeep, an older, taller version of the stable boy, took in the pauldron and nodded. “Food? Drink?”

“A bottle of wine and some stew if you have it?”

“Give me a minute, and I’ll bring it over.” He headed toward the kitchen shouting for someone named Marie to get stew and bread for some hungry kingsmen.

****************


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and d'Artagnan cement their bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After several weeks of trying to intersperse the events at the inn with those of the grove, I admitted defeat and tore them apart. _Literally, there was actual blood._ So, in light of such an extended delay between chapters, this one is extra long.

Chapter 20

 

It feels like he's telling d'Artagnan hugely important *things* with the kiss,  
like there are histories in the sweep of his tongue, and scars in the *press* of his lips and teeth.

~Teland, Finer Than Sand

 

_The birds wanted to peck their eyes. He could tell by the raucous sound of their caws. This murder of crows called itself into a frenzy._

_Aramis felt the familiar signs of panic snake up his spine. His breath came in pants. His vision blurred. His heart threatened to beat through his chest. “No. Get away from them! Please ...”_

_The inky black birds, bloated by the meat they had already stripped from his dead brothers, lazily hopped a few steps away from him but were soon enough back to enjoying their feast. The screeching sound of their cackles was deafening._

_Aramis was sure his ears would bleed from it. He clamped his hands to the sides of his head crying, “No! No! No!”_

 

“Aramis? Aramis! Open your eyes, brother.”

He could hear a familiar voice calling his name. D’Artagnan? It cannot be, he wasn’t at Savoy. Aramis shook his head.

“Open your eyes, please.”

Aramis thought this an odd request. His eyes were open. How else could he see the birds flapping around the frozen bodies in the snow? But, that couldn’t be right. It is summer. He spent an hour yesterday listening to Athos grumble about the heat. Athos? He wasn’t at Savoy, either.

“Aramis, please brother. Open your eyes.”

This time the voice was very near. He could feel puffs of warm air upon his face. A body climbed onto his lap, and hands covered his trying to pry them from his ears. He fought them. He didn’t ... couldn’t hear their cries again. He realized he was shouting out, “No, No ...”

“Stop this! Wake up! Aramis!”

Suddenly, lips were pressed against his, and his eyes snapped open. He pushed the body off of his lap and scrambled back on the rock. His breathing was labored, and he shook his head to clear the dream for he knew now that was what it was.

“Aramis? Aramis? I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of what else to do except hit you, and I couldn’t ... I’m sorry.”

For several minutes, all Aramis could do was concentrate on regulating his breath. When he finally got that under control, he looked at his brother. D’Artagnan was a few feet away from him on his knees his head hung in sorrow. “D’Artagnan?”

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have, but you were so upset. You wouldn’t wake up when I called to you. I’m so sorry.” The boy’s misery was evident in his apologies.

Aramis lowered his head and pinched his nose, “No, I apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’ve not had many dreams of Savoy since I ... since Marsac died. I should have warned you. Please forgive me.” Aramis reached out his arm to the Gascon. The boy hesitated for a moment and then grasped his hand. Aramis pulled him back onto his lap resting their foreheads together.

“You forgive to easily brother,” d’Artagnan whispered. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Sometimes, I find myself back there ... I hope I did not upset you too much?” Aramis wrapped his arms around d’Artagnan and held him. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Well, I did land on my pride,” d’Artagnan smiled, “but I’m fine.” He looked down and blushed, “You realize that we are both naked, yes?”

The marksman blushed as well. “You know, I find I quite like being awoken with a kiss.” He tightened his arms around the boy and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “Perhaps, we should think about dinner ... and clothes.”

 

The late afternoon sky was clear of clouds and the air was still warm so Aramis built up a fire hot enough to cook the two hares d’Artagnan snared and skinned but not as big as the previous night. The Gascon threaded a skewer he’d whittled from one of the branches of the Lindon trees through each animal and balanced them on four y-shaped sticks he’d carved earlier as he waited for Aramis to finish sharpening the knives.

Aramis, rosary in hand, sat on Porthos’ log and prayed bead by bead; however, he found it difficult to concentrate. The nightmare was bothering him. Not the fact that he had it. He expected he would have some version of that dream for the rest of his life. It was more that he had it now.

The dream surfaced around the Holy Days each year, which made sense. Savoy happened on Good Friday, and he was found right after Easter. Sometimes, finding bodies in the snow would trigger a dream. That was what happened when they found Cornet.

Now there was no snow. The equinox was upon them; soon, it would be the first day of summer. The only other times he had the nightmare it had served as an omen of sorts; although, he did not recognize it at the time. He only remembered waking and feeling horribly exposed somehow.

The last time he had it was the night before he had apparently slept with the queen and made her with child. Perhaps it was coincidence. Perhaps it was not.

He felt a warm hand on his arm and shook himself from his thoughts.

“You were not praying so much as thinking. Is something wrong?” D’Artagnan’s walnut-brown eyes shined with concern.

Aramis gave him a fond smile, “No, not exactly.” He studied his whelp’s patient expression and realized he would have to explain himself just as he would have to if it were Porthos or Athos. “I was thinking about Savoy. No, about having dreams _about_ Savoy.”

D’Artagnan interrupted moving to sit next to him as he spoke, “Are you alright? How can I help you?”

“I will not lie to you. I find the dreams disconcerting, and I fear I always will. They’re tolerable when my brothers are near.” He noted d’Artagnan’s furled brow, “That includes you, My Whelp,” he added taking his hand.

The Gascon looked at their joined hands and intertwined their fingers, “What about having the dream is bothering you? That it happened today?”

Aramis used his free hand to turn the hares over the flames gathering his thoughts, “I seem to have them mostly around the Holy Days, but sometimes ...” he felt himself frowning. Was this foolishness?

“Sometimes ... something else triggers the dream?” d’Artagnan intuited.

“Yes, I ... I feel that sometimes they are omens of a sort warning me that something bad is going to happen. I know that sounds ridiculous, but the last two times I had the dream ...” he allowed his voice to trail off in embarrassment.

“I would not judge you for trying to make sense of things.”

Aramis took a deep breath. “No, I don’t believe you would. The night before the Duke of Savoy arrived you and Athos were patrolling. I woke up sobbing in Porthos’ bed.” Aramis closed his eyes basking in the remembered feeling of absolute love he felt in Porthos’ arms as he tenderly cradled him in his lap for the rest of the night. The memory steadied him.

“The next time, was about four months ago. The night before I was called to the Louvre to meet Treville. You three were escorting the tax collectors, and I was on palace duty.”

He had woken up alone and terrified. Unable to return to sleep, he ventured into Serge’s kitchen and helped the old veteran peel vegetables for breakfast. Serge, sensing a need, had distracted him with old campaign stories and tales of his adventures with a much younger Treville.

“When you were called to the Louvre, that was the day ...?”

Aramis nodded.

“I have never understood that. Sorry, I know we seem to have agreed to never speak of it, but I know you. You would not commit treason. Your reputation be damned. You love Porthos and Athos. You would never risk their necks for a conquest even if it were the queen. You would not risk the Order of the Blue Cloaks. You would not sentence us all to hang. You would not.” D’Artagnan’s eyes were ablaze--his fury palpable.

Aramis felt his eyes fill and clamped them closed against the wetness. The Whelp’s faith in him was heartening, and his words were not unlike what the captain, Porthos, and Athos had all said. Yet, the facts seemed to speak for themselves. The queen was pregnant. She did ask him to be the protector of her and the child. Why would she do that if it were not true? Why did it feel like a lie. Why could he not remember?

Aramis forced words around the lump in his throat, “I pray daily that you are right, _mon ami._ I have not had a memory lapse in years. Truly. But, this is all I can pull out of my head of what happened that day.”

 

_Although, the message sent to order Aramis to the palace was signed by Treville, it had been a priest serving as secretary to His Eminence, The Cardinal, who waited at the entrance for him._

_“His Eminence and your captain await your arrival in the Cardinal’s personal study.” The insipid man informed him. He began walking toward the cardinal’s room confident the musketeer would obediently follow, and he did._

_As they walked, Aramis heard Athos’ voice in his head, “Do not ever go to see the cardinal without one of us. Promise me.” And, he had promised. This was not breaking the promise. Treville would be there. Except, he wasn’t._

_The priest opened the doors to the Cardinal’s study revealing His Eminence, alone and dressed in his usual blood red robes, pouring over papers on his ornate, wooden desk. Porthos had once commented that there were hovels housing entire families in the Court of Miracles that were smaller than the cardinal’s monstrosity. “What do you suppose he is compensating for, my friend?” Aramis remarked in his best impersonation of Athos’ noble drawl. Porthos’ guffaw earned him a dressing down by both the cardinal and the captain that day._

_Oddly, Richelieu’s grayed-out features softened when he saw the marksman at his door, “Come in, Aramis. Your captain’s presence was requested in the throne room. He will return shortly, and I find myself in need of a translator. My French and Latin are, of course, impeccable.” He arched a bushy gray eyebrow over a granite-colored eye at him expecting a challenge._

_When he received none, he continued, “However, my Spanish is rudimentary at best. I need a fluent speaker to check that my translation of a letter purloined from the Spanish ambassador has been correctly transcribed for both His Majesty and His Holiness. Would you be so kind?” The Cardinal gestured toward a chair sat at an angle toward his own._

_Aramis sat down wondering at the cardinal’s speech. He was fairly certain that for as long as he had know His Eminence, he had never spoken more than a few words to him--generally, belittling or yelling at him and his brothers. Mostly his contact with the Richelieu was uncomfortable as the man’s eyes made no secret of what he was thinking about him--about doing to him. There seemed to be none of that today._

_Aramis nodded, “Of course, Your Eminence. I would be happy to assist you.” He took the paper the older man handed him and read the original letter. He placed it beside the French version, picked up a quill and made various suggested changes. He then repeated the task with the Latin version. This one contained mostly grammatical mistakes. Mistakes the Cardinal should have caught on his own._

_He handed the papers back to His Eminence and rose from his chair to leave only to find himself pushed back down._

_Porthos’ voice rang in his head, “Don’ ever trust that bead-wearin’ snake. Promise me.” Aramis had, but was at a loss as to how to extricate himself without incurring the Cardinal’s wrath._

_“Please, stay seated. His Holiness sent a new type of liqueur in yesterday’s dispatch. In his missive, he called it the blue fairy. Originally, it comes from the Greek Isles, I believe. Let us toast to his health.” He handed Aramis a small, delicately cupped glass with no stem containing a viscous sapphire-blue liquid._

_He knew there was no way to refuse a toast to the Pope so Aramis accepted the glass. It felt uncomfortably hot in his hand._

_“May His Holiness reign supreme to guide us with his love and wisdom.” Richelieu proclaimed and put the glass to his mouth taking a small sip._

_Aramis nodded and downed the drink belatedly noting the Cardinal had not finished his._

 

“The next thing I remember is waking up in My Captain’s bed naked in his arms.” Aramis whispered the last part, consternated that he could not seem to lie or omit information to d’Artagnan.

“What? Why?” The Gascon squeezed his hand and used his other to cup Aramis’ cheek as if to examine him for signs of injury.

The marksman smiled into d’Artagnan’s worried eyes. “It was months ago _mon ami doux._ My Captain did not hurt me. At my request, he helped me. At least that is what the letter I wrote myself said.”

“I am confused,” d’Artagnan whispered as he absently pulled the hares from the fire and set them to cool along the rocky ring. “You wrote yourself a letter to sleep with Captain Treville.”

Aramis laughed turning toward His Whelp to straddle the log, “No, I wrote the letter telling myself that what Treville had done was at my request. That a spell was needed to save my sanity. A spell to make me forget. What I forgot, I cannot say, and Treville was sworn to secrecy by me before he cast the spell.”

“All right. Leaving that for a moment. Why were you naked? Were you both naked?” d’Artagnan’s feelings of protectiveness toward Aramis were evident in his features as he straddle the log to face his brother.

“The most powerful type of magic is Love Magic. The second most powerful is Sex Magic. As My Captain and I were not lovers, the second had to do. Not that I remember that either. I woke up safe. I felt protected. He served me as a mage not as a man. Does that make sense?”

“No,” d’Artagnan huffed as he scooted over to Aramis finally nudging his own knees under his brother’s in an effort to get closer. “But, you must have had a good reason to do as you did.” He leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Aramis closed his eyes for a moment giving thanks that he had been graced with three brothers and a captain with such faith and trust in him. “When the queen asked me to be her protector--her’s and the unborn child’s--I knew what I must have done. The timing, you see. Although, I still do not recall ... I was terrified that my loves would abandon me in disgust. Terrified that you would as well.”

“I would never, Aramis. I. Would. Never. And, neither would they.” For the first time, d’Artagnan initiated a kiss. He licked Aramis’ lips and entered his mouth with confidence.

Aramis could feel his Whelp’s passion flowing into him sharing his love and devotion not just to the man but to their brotherhood as well. He kissed back letting his hands roam into the Gascon’s hair and onto the warm skin of his throat and the nape of his neck. He tried to give d’Artagnan his life story in that kiss. What he could remember of it, at least.

The kiss seemed to last hours. They slightly pulled apart, mostly in need of air, both pressing smiling lips against each other’s mouths. “I wish our brothers were here to see how truly wonderful you are, d’Artagnan. You are the missing piece to a puzzle I mistakenly thought was long ago completed.”

D’Artagnan looped his arms around his neck. Aramis responded by encircling the boy’s waist. They held each other for a bit until His Whelp’s growlingly stomach interrupted.

Aramis chuckled as he reached for one of sticks holding a hare, “May I?” At d’Artagnan’s nod, he skillfully pulled a piece of perfectly cooked meat off the bone and gently fed it to His Whelp. He watched as his brother closed his eyes enjoying the flavor. He fed him another piece and barely contained a moan as d’Artagnan licked at the line of juice running down his fingers.

To distract himself, he rambled, “Athos enjoys feeding me. I do not think I truly understood why until now,” he took a piece of meat for himself and chewed savoring the rich meat.

Noting the setting sun, a thought flitted through his mind. ‘We are safe. Unlike the other times the nightmare took me, I feel perfectly safe. So, if it is not me ... not us ... Oh, brothers please be safe.’ And, then the thought was gone.

He turned his attention back to the Gascon. He pulled more meat off the hare.

To Aramis’ pleasure, d’Artagnan licked his lips before taking another piece from him and asking, “What of Porthos?”

He raised an eyebrow at His Whelp. “Oh, I learned long ago to never interfere in the ongoing affair between that man and his food. However, it is a joy to behold when he eats something he truly relishes. Is it not?” He noticed d’Artagnan flush at his statement, “You like the idea of this.”

“He is so powerful and gentle and alive. I have wondered what it would feel like to have him ...”

“It would feel amazing--all encompassing--and he would love to relish _you,_ you know,” Aramis grinned at the passion His Whelp sent off in waves.

“I have also wondered ... what Athos is like as well?” d’Artagnan tore a piece of the hare and shyly offered it to him.

Aramis took the meat gently into his mouth letting his lips linger and his tongue caress His Whelp’s fingers as he chewed. “He is attentively commanding, confident, and caring. They are both everything I always thought a lover should be and many things that never even occurred to me but are absolutely vital. If you wish, they can be these things to you as well. ”

As Aramis took another piece of meat from d’Artagnan, “Aramis?”

“mmm?”

“Let us clean up and ready the camp for the evening. Then ...”

“Then?”

“Take me to bed.”

 

It was a summer night as beautiful as any he had seen in Gascony. The warm breeze caressed their skin as they lay naked under the stars--stars that seemed to blaze in competition with the waxing moon to see who could be more dazzling.

Not that d’Artagnan was paying much attention to their surroundings. He did not notice the velvet black of the night sky or the soft rustle of the leaves overhead. All of his focus was on the man facing him. He let himself sink into the brown eyes that steadily held his gaze. With some surprise, he noticed thin golden lines meandering through the amber of Aramis’ eyes. He smiled without any irritation. Truly, all parts of this man were designed to be fascinating.

They were lying facing each other on top of their bedrolls. Their legs and bellies were touching and their heads were balanced on their hands. They splayed their fingers over each other’s chests catching each breathe and heartbeat.

“Breathe with me. Match my breaths in and out.” Aramis inhaled to a count of five and exhaled to the same count.

D’Artagnan slowed his breathing to match his brother’s. After a few minutes, he noticed he no longer had to concentrate on it. It happened automatically. He realized something else had fallen into sync. “Our heartbeats ...”

“Do you trust me, My Whelp?”

“In all things.”

Aramis nuzzled his ear. Slowly and with deliberate cadence, Aramis whispered, “Yes, we are as one. Close your eyes. Feel my skin against yours. My hair against your face, and my beard against your throat. Hear the water bubbling in the brook and the beat of my heart against your chest. Taste the salt on our skin and the wine on our lips.” Aramis used the tip of his tongue to lick his collarbone. “Smell our scents ... sandalwood and apples ... jasmine and pepper.”

“Aramis, your words are weaving a spell around us. I feel completely at peace. There is nothing I want more than you here in my arms. Our skin touching ... I feel as if ... but how? I am not all the way hard; yet, ... “ A wave of pleasure rolled through him from his head to his toes. It felt like he had spent; yet, he was dry. “What was that?”

He heard his brother chuckle softly into the crook of his neck. “You achieved bliss without spending. It is a ... Oh ...“ Aramis’ eyes closed and his body arched invitingly against his own, “It is a ... gift to achieve.”

Aramis seemed to be climbing him trying to cover his body completely. He pulled him closer. He felt as if every inch of their bodies were pressed together now. Aramis’ hands were stroking his skin lightly ghosting along the bones of his hips.

“Close your eyes, My Whelp. Just feel.”

D’Artagnan obeyed, and it was as if he was being stroked with feathers all over his body. His skin tingled, and he felt feverish. “Aramis, please. Make it happen again.”

“I’m not making anything happen by myself. We are, together. Oh ...”

He watched as the marksman’s eyes rolled back.

There it was again--a wave of pure pleasure. Aramis went boneless in his arms as he tried to seal himself onto the older man. He felt their muscles moving as one. They pulsated against each other. D’Artagnan saw star bursts behind his closed eyelids. Another wave came through them. This one was a bit more gentle and much deeper. It ran up his spine, lapped at his heart, and flowed through his mind; then, he saw it go through Aramis as well. He saw it in his mind’s eye. He clutched harder at Aramis pressing their lips together.

There were three more waves after that each more intense than the last. Their bodies almost imperceptibly undulated. Their tongues slid seductively against each other. He wondered if their very souls were melding together.

He lost himself in the sensation of mind joined to mind, body to body. Still, neither man spent. Although, virginal in the sense that neither had taken the other, he now knew this man to be his. He felt himself floating and outside of time tethered only to his brother.

 

“Whelp? _Mon doux amour._?”

As if awakening from a dream, he slowly raised his eyelids to find himself staring into Aramis’ lovely face. Aramis gifted d’Artagnan with a beatific smile and an adoring gaze. If possible, it made Aramis look even more astonishingly handsome and young.

“I ... That was amazing. That you ... you chose to share that with me.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “I don’t feel worthy of such ... rapture, but I am ... I feel sated even without ...”

Aramis kissed him letting his tongue flutter against d’Artagnan’s teeth like a butterfly flitting from one flower to the next. He moaned softly, “I cannot imagine the loss of your touch. That felt complete. I think you complete me ... us.”

“Oh, Aramis. I want all of it--you, our brothers, and Constance.” D’Artagnan pressed their lips together again sinking his tongue into Aramis’ mouth this time letting the flutters turn into caresses eliciting another moan from Aramis.

“Then if it is in anyway within me to give it to you, you shall have it.” Aramis whispered fervently.

He pulled back feeling the warm combination of soft skin and hardened muscle in his arms, “Athos, is right. Holding you is like holding an angel.”

Aramis dipped his head, blushed, and yawned, “Sweet words. Let us sleep, yes?”

“True words,” d’Artagnan cuddled them together draping Aramis over him as if he were a favorite blanket. “Sleep well. I will keep you safe.”

Aramis closed his eyes and pressed their foreheads together. He gave his temple a lingering kiss and curled himself around and over d’Artagnan intertwining their fingers over the Gascon’s heart. Sleepily, he whispered, “I believe you.”

Tears sprang to d’Artagnan’s eyes. He blinked them back as he kissed his lover’s hair. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _doux_ is sweet
> 
> The liqueur, blue fairy, is a takeoff of the green fairy, a nickname for absinthe. The uses for blue fairy will become apparent later in the story.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beware the blue fairy.

Chapter 21

 

****************

Athos and Porthos finished their stew while trying to make conversation with the sword maker, Pierre LaForce. The fussy man made the task difficult as mostly he complained of the weather, the road, the accommodations, and the food. Porthos gamely pushed the exchanges along explaining the soldiers rarely had a say in the conditions of travel, and he was happy it had not rained of late. He finally stumbled onto the art of sword making itself. On this, Monsieur LaForce became somewhat animated as he described the process in detail. 

Athos sipped his wine and let his mind wander back to the glade. He imagined Aramis would be napping in the afternoon sun or praying in the woods nearby. He enjoyed watching him do both of those things, and he visualized himself close keeping watch. D’Artagnan was probably skinning some hares he snared for dinner. He would keep watch over both of them. It would be quiet, peaceful, and without prickly sword makers and their constant complaining.

He felt Porthos knock knees with him under the table trying to get his attention. He focused back in on the mousy craftsman.

“Well, I must be off if I intend to be home by dinner tomorrow. Here is His Majesty’s sword. It is some of my best work, I must say,” he presented the wrapped sword to Athos who accepted it as one might take a newborn babe. 

Porthos passed the man a bag of gold coins. LaForce weighed the bag carefully in his hands, nodded, and pushed himself away from the table, “Gentlemen,” he put on his hat, tipped it toward them, and was off. 

Porthos breathed a sign of relief when he heard the tavern door close, “Good Lord. Next time you do the talkin’, and I’ll do the daydreamin’.”

Athos chuckled pressing his thigh against Porthos’ and whispered, “But you do it so well, my love.”

Porthos merely grunted and poured himself another glass of the rather weak wine.

****************

In the world of sword making, Pierre LaForce truly was an important man. He oversaw several other sword makers and more than a dozen apprentices, blacksmiths, and water boys--not to mention keeping the books for the leading sword maker of Tours, his father. In fact, his father was the reason he was on this trip. In years past, Michele LaForce would have insisted on delivering the king’s present himself in Paris; however, his advanced age made it impossible to travel such distances leaving his son as the delivery boy. 

Personally, Pierre thought the Blue Cloaks should have come to the LaForce & Sons Sword Works directly and spared him this infernal ride in an increasing hot June. The only thing he looked forward to was arriving for dinner tomorrow night and spending the evening quietly at home with his wife and son. He hoped Marie remembered to have the cook prepare his favorite dinner, roast chicken. 

He entered the stables and marched toward the back of the rickety old building absently calling for the stable boy to ready his horse, “Boy, it is I, Pierre LaForce, I requested my mount be readied over an hour ago. Where are you, boy?” Lost in his thoughts, he did not hear the crunch of hay behind him, nor did he hear a sharp intake of breath as strong hands with bony fingers encircled his throat and squeezed with enough speed and force to collapse his windpipe and break his neck. 

The assailant gently laid the body of Pierre LaForce onto some clean hay, pocketed the bag of gold coins, and quickly began to remove his clothes. Having covered the nearly naked sword maker’s body in hay, the man tapped the spot on his forehead containing a glyph of a ram skin. He placed his hand over the dead man’s face and muttered a spell in ancient Greek. The mark of Medea glowed above his right eyebrow, and he growled in pain as the bones and skin of his face reknitted themselves into an exact likeness of the recently deceased Pierre LaForce.

Once the glamour was firmly in place, he took several deep breaths and repeated his new name several times to ensure his voice changed to match his new appearance. There was no time to waste. He was due back in Paris before midnight. He thanked Hermes for his blessing, grabbed a small flask from his stashed saddle bag, and without a backward glance, he headed toward the inn.

****************

Entering quietly, he noticed the two musketeers had their backs to him and were standing by the bar talking to the innkeeper. Silently, he moved to the only table with dinnerware on it and carefully removed his flask pouring a small but equal amount of a sapphire-blue liquid into the two cups across from him. He slid the flask back into LaForce’s expensive coat and called out to the innkeeper, “Please another bottle of wine for me and my new friends.”

Porthos and Athos turned toward their table in surprise, “Monsieur, were you not just leaving?” Athos asked, hopefully.

“Alas, my horse has thrown a shoe. The stable boy took him to the farrier; he should be ready soon. Until then, please join me,” he gestured to their seats.

Unwilling to be rude, the two soldiers resumed their original seats. The innkeeper brought over a new bottle of wine, which he poured into all three glasses. The man wearing LaForce’s face smiled at the Blue Cloaks, “Gentlemen, I had not wanted to ride in the afternoon heat, and it seems I got my wish.” He raised his cup, “To wishes, may they always come true.” He knocked each of their cups and downed his drink in one gulp. Again, out of politeness, Athos and Porthos did the same.

“Wishes are interesting things; aren’t they? Some are little like delaying a trip for a few hours and some can be quite large like wishing for a new love or to find a fortune. Don’t you think?” He picked up the bottle and refilled their glasses.

“I suppose there’s some truth ta that. I’ve never ‘ad any _large_ wishes come true, but as a boy when it was cold I’d wish for a scarf or gloves. I’d sometimes find’m laying about.” Porthos speech sounded a bit muffled to himself as if he was just waking up from too much sleep. He shook his head and took another drink of wine.

“Yes, small wishes do seem a bit easier to fulfill. But, what if a large wish were possible?” He willed his features to remain passive. He was just a man in an idle conversation meant to pass the time and nothing more.

Athos blinked to focus his eyes a bit more. He seemed to be more tired than he had thought, “There is no point in wishing for things that cannot happen. It is a waste of time.”

“For the sake of conversation, _indulge me_.” The last two words were delivered as more of a command than a request. He waited willing the blue fairy he had poured into their cups to work faster.

Porthos nodded, “All right. I grew up in the Court o’ Miracles. When I was fifteen and my mother had been dead ten years, I wished for the last time that my father would come and claim me. It never came true,” he added a bitter edge to his words.

Athos was formulating a wish in his head to comply with the sword maker’s request when he heard Porthos admit to growing up in the Court. He never did this--especially not to strangers. Something was wrong, but he could not seem for work out what it was. He rested his hand on Porthos’ thigh and felt a warmth in his belly further distracting him.

“Fair enough,” the sword maker acknowledged Porthos’ frustration, “But, if you were guaranteed a wish would come true, would that be your wish? That your fifteen-year-old self would be claimed and rescued from the Court? That you would be taken home and made a part of your father’s family?” He paused and waited to see if Porthos would take the bait.

“Yeah, I s’ppose so. If it were guaranteed, that’s what I’d wish.”

He reeled him in, “Say it my friend. Make your wish.”

Porthos nodded again. He could feel Athos hand on his thigh beginning to stroke toward his knee and back, “I wish that when I turned fifteen, my father had come to the Court o’ Miracles, claimed me, and made me part of ‘is family.” His eyes were glazed. He looked drugged, and his concentration was now wholly focused on Athos’ hand rubbing his leg . He missed the smirk on the face of Pierre LaForce as he tapped the mark of Madea on his forehead and whispered the first part of the incantation they would say tomorrow night in Paris.

“And you, Athos, of the King’s Musketeers, what _large_ wish would you make if you could?” He studied the two men as Athos worked to form his answer. The musketeers where sitting so close they touched from shoulder on down. One of Athos’ hands was underneath the table, and he would bet it was on Porthos’ thigh. It seems the Cardinal’s scrying the unusual closeness between The Inseparables was true. He could work with this, and it would save him the time of killing the musketeers and hiding their bodies. He was due back in Paris tonight after all.

Athos cleared his throat and dragged his eyes back to the bothersome sword maker, “I would wish that my brother, Thomas, had never found out about my wife.” He felt Porthos’ fingers grasp his hand as he stroked his thigh. He felt he should be ashamed for saying his wish out loud; yet, his attention was drawn to the heat under his hand. He felt himself flush.

“Oh, Milady will be so pleased,” He laughed as he tapped the mark again and whispered his part of the spell. “Your wishes are perfect. Thank you gentleman.”

Athos hand stopped moving. With great determination, he forced himself to look at LaForce, “What did you do to us?” Athos finally pushed out. The effort drained him, and he slumped against Porthos’ shoulder.

“I suppose it does not matter for you to know now.” LaForce gave them a mean little smile, “In your wine, I gave you a full dose of blue fairy. It’s an old drink from Greece newly arrived via Rome. The liqueur has many interesting properties. In fact, several came in handy today. 

“One, making the drinker very open to the power of suggestion. You did so well telling me your wishes.

“Two, causing the drinker to feel compelled to tell the truth. Your wishes were truly heartfelt. Thank you for that.

“Three, removing the drinker’s sexual inhibitions. In other words, it is an amazingly strong aphrodisiac.” He licked his lips wishing the pretty one was here. He would have made some time for the Spanish whore.

“Who are you?” Porthos croaked.

“An old friend. I know this was a terrible way to thank you for rescuing me from a Spanish prison, but it is what it is, I’m afraid,” LaForce laughed. “But seriously, I have a long way to go and not much time to get there so ...” He paused giving his next words much attention. He wanted to make sure they were properly occupied. “All right boys. I can see there is more going on here than meets the eye.”

Athos and Porthos were both trying to pay attention to the man they knew as Rochefort who was somehow wearing LaForce’s face. Both men seemed unable to focus on anything but each other. Athos free hand was gripping the table so hard his knuckles were white. Porthos had both of his hands below the table one covering Athos’ hand and one cupping himself trying desperately not to rub.

Interrupting their struggle, Rochefort gave an order, “Why don’t you two, go upstairs to the room you rented for the night. Be with each other. Enjoy each other. Share your deepest, most closely held fantasies with each other, and then fuck each other’s brains out. Make sure you do not come out until morning. Is that understood?” He looked at the two men in front of him already hot and bothered. “Go on. Go now.”

Athos and Porthos rose from the table both ignoring the obvious states of their mutual desires. “Rochefort ...” Athos turned to LaForce. “You won’t get away with this.” Athos hand was on Porthos’ back guiding him to the stairs.

“Oh, my friends, that is the beauty of this plan. I already have.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drugged on blue fairy, Athos and Porthos follow Rochefort's command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I am back. The boys kept dragging me into pure, detailed erotica, but I bravely fought them off so that this is erotica painted with a wide brush. I hope.

Chapter 22

 

Porthos opened the door to their room and pulled Athos inside. He used Athos’ body to close the door and leaned in kissing him hard enough to hear Athos’ head hit the wooden frame and to see his hat fall. Athos grunted and kissed back giving as good as he got. 

“Too many clothes,” Athos gasped out between Porthos’ onslaught of lips and tongue against his throat. 

They both tore off their weapons belts and doublets and tried their best not to lose contact. It seemed imperative that they did not. Finally down to shirts, breeches, and boots, Athos shoved Porthos back into the room until the back of his calves hit the edge of the low bed against the wall opposite of the door. 

Porthos sat down hard on the bed finally breaking their kiss. Athos crouched down at Porthos’ feet and began to remove his boots and breeches. “Athos, what are ya ...?”

Athos shook his head and finished the task at hand. He shoved the boots out of the way and knelt between Porthos legs. He loosely grasped each of Porthos’ ankles letting his fingers rest against the Achilles tendons, “Shh ... This is one of my fantasies.” Athos ran his fingers up the backs of Porthos’ legs until he reached the bed and then slowly dragged them back down again. 

Porthos felt Athos’ calluses lightly scrape against the hairs on his skin and moaned.

Athos looked up at Porthos his eyes almost black with desire. “My love, ever since the first time I took you there in my mind, I often fantasize about you at La Fere in Pinon. I see you dressed in the finest silks--clothes befitting the man you are. The Comte you are.” 

Athos voice was low and even as he continued to stroke Porthos’ calves. He inched closer to the bed. 

 

_“I can see us there together. Perhaps my family has fallen on hard times, and you have graciously offered me employment as your manservant. I am, of course, very grateful to be serving someone as impressive as the famous musketeer, Porthos du Vallon._

_“It is my job to make sure you look appropriate for any occasion. So, on this morning, I have set out three of your newest silk breeches and brocade jackets from which to choose. I then awaken you as you have instructed by crawling under the sheets and taking your lovely semi-hard cock into my mouth. I swirl my tongue over the head as you like and then take you in._

_“This is when you awaken and begin to rock your hips slowly, sleepily, at first. Then, you quicken the pace. You fuck my mouth telling me I am doing so well, telling me my mouth is so hot. I use one hand to stroke your bollocks and the other to steady your hips as you back arches up, and you spend. You prefer me to swallow your seed and so I do. It tastes of salt, citrus, and smoke. A taste I will not be allowed to enjoy again until this evening._

_You prefer me to hold your softening cock in my mouth while you catch your breath. As a reward you stroke my hair and tell me how much my service is improving every day ... how I take such good care of you._

_“When you are ready, you clear your throat and that is my signal to get up, straighten my clothes, and help you out of bed.”_

 

“Fuck, Athos. That’s so hot. I’d no idea ya wanted to ... Come ‘ere.” Porthos yanked Athos up onto his knees and kissed him hard, sloppy, and wet. 

Athos moaned into Porthos’ mouth, “You are more what a noble _man_ should be than anyone I have ever met. I would serve you and be honored to do it,” Athos moved to unlace his lover’s shirt and push it off his broad shoulders. “You are so alive. So strong. He stroked his palms down Porthos’ well-muscled chest pausing at his nipples letting his fingers roll and pinch. 

They both felt a twinge then. Something ... no, _someone_ was missing ... someone important to them. In unison, they breathed, “Aramis,” and a second later, “d’Artagnan.”

“It is the drink,” Athos forced out even as his hands moved along Porthos abdomen. He saw that Porthos had undone his small clothes. His mouth watered at the sight of Porthos’ cock. He wanted it, but ...” Athos shook his head, “I cannot stop. The need is too great.”

Porthos groaned as Athos’ warm tongue covered the head of his cock and melted as he felt those scarred lips drag across his shaft, “I can’t either. Christ, brother, yer ... that feels so good.” Porthos closed his eyes. He lost himself in the wet heat of Athos’ mouth. He pinched his own thigh, “First light. We’ll leave at first light to go back to get’m ... get them.”

Athos nodded and slowly pulled off of Porthos. Do you remember ... 

 

_It was two winters ago when we three were snowbound at that little inn in Brittany. Noel. Aramis promised to grant any sexual favor you or I asked in lieu of a gift. I, apparently, raised an eyebrow at the ridiculousness of this as Aramis never refused me anything. You took me aside and told me it was more about getting me to ask than Aramis to give. So, I asked to learn how to take you in my mouth and all the way down._

_Over several snowy nights, Aramis endeavored to teach me how to open my throat--how to do for you what Aramis seemed to do for us so effortlessly._

_Aramis knelt behind me with his shirt open so that the ever-tactile man could press his naked chest against my bared back and guide me. I do love it when he drapes himself across my back. He let his lips and breath caress my ear._

 

Athos closed his eyes remembering the feel of Aramis’ muscled chest against his shoulder blades and those long callused fingers sensually massaging his throat whispering endearments and encouragements as Porthos fed him his beautiful prick bit by bit. 

 

_At first, I was convinced I would choke or pass out due to lack of air, but Aramis kept talking to both of us, “Porthos, easy. His mouth is stretched so wide for you. Let him do the work. You just sit back and enjoy the ride.”_

_He told me to take it slow to imagine my throat opening and you spending your hot seed into my belly._

_Aramis had been so delighted the first time I succeeded in taking you all the way in. His voice sounded so silky in my ear, he breath warm and wet, “Oh, Athos. You should see what you have done to our steady and calm Porthos. His eyes have rolled back. His face is ecstatic. So ... you’ve done so well. You’ve pleased both your lovers so much.”_

 

Athos braced his hands on Porthos’ hips even as he wrapped his mouth around the head and ran his tongue along the slit. He moaned at the familiar tastes as he opened his throat and swallowed Porthos down. His jaw and lips were stretched as far as they would go and his throat was burning as he slowly began dragging his head up and down Porthos’ length.

He felt rather than heard Porthos moan. The sound came from deep within the man as he strained to be still as Athos impaled his throat on him, “Oh, God. You look so beautiful like that. Yes ... Yes.” Porthos tugged at Athos hair to let him know he was close. 

Athos pulled his head back so that the head of Porthos’ cock filled his mouth. He flattened his tongue and lapped up Porthos spend as his brother roared into his climax.

 

Porthos felt time seemed to sag and fill like the top sail of a Caravel. They seemed to be moving from fantasy to fantasy and acting things out as they went and could only seem to grasp bits and pieces.

_Aramis and d’Artagnan kneeling at his feet, heads bowed, awaiting instruction._

_Athos laying across this bed crying out and sobbing as he licked his ass clean._

_D’Artagnan standing in the center of the Garrison his doublet and weapons at his feet as he bites and sucks at Athos’ neck._

_Porthos’ fingers in Aramis’ mouth suckling as he tells Aramis what a beautiful boy he is. Aramis’ eyes glazing over and head dropping lost in his warmth._

_Aramis kneeling to Athos side and facing him so that Athos can feed him from fingertips. Aramis, with his eyes closed and licking--Athos tells him what a good pet he is._

 

With all of that, he still felt he was missing things. For example, when did he and Athos crawl naked under the covers of the single bed in the room; he had no memory of taking his shirt off. Aramis would say this was an academic problem at best since his body was already moving Athos into position for an old fantasy that had just pushed its way to the surface.

 

_Yer wearin’ a feathered, wine-colored Venetian mask, breeches and shirt, and are sitting face out on my lap as I bounce ya’. I’ve still go all my clothes on, and I’m wearin’ a mask as well; mine makes me look even more like a pirate. We’re in the back parlor of Madame Angel’s. You know, the room reserved for gentlemen to choose their catamites for the evening so none know who they are._

 

Athos knew this fantasy. Porthos shared it with him one night while they waited for Aramis to come back from guard duty at the palace. He settled into Porthos’ lap resting the back of his head on Porthos’ shoulder and letting his lover’s big hands guide his hips gently up and down. He liked the feel of Porthos’ cock pressing against the small of his back--rubbing with each bounce.

 

_You tell Madame Angel to send in some of the young men she has workin’ there--no boys. Madame Angel eyes us for a moment and sends in three men she swears are eighteen. The first one in the room has skin darker than mine. He sits on the stool across from us lookin’ bored. He has Court eyes. He knows we’re soldiers, and he’s out for a wealthier customer. The second one in is a curly-haired beauty who looks to be from Spain or maybe Portugal. He is still too young to grow a beard, but he gives a soft smile and sits on the hearth. He takes us in. His amber-colored eyes meet mine, and he blushes a bit. The third one in the room is French but from the north. He is nervous, blonde, and blue-eyed and keeps lookin’ to the other two for guidance._

_The Spanish one gets up slowly and walks over to us like he’s afraid he might spook a high-strung horse. He looks at me and smiles one of those smiles that says, “I’m jus’ gettin’ a closer look. Everything’s still alright.” He flicks his eyes toward you askin’ without talkin’ “Can I approach your lover? Can I touch him?” I nod._

_He speaks then. A soft lilt to his words, “My name is Rene. You are very beautiful. May I take your hands?”_

_You surprise me by noddin’ and holdin’ yer ‘ands out to him. You don’t usually like to be touched by strangers. Rene drops smoothly and effortlessly down on his knees in front of ya. He takes yer hands and gently kisses yer knuckles. He smiles atcha, and I ‘ear ya gasp so I know Rene is the one ya want._

_I lift my chin to Madame Angel, and she quietly ushers out the other two men. “You choose well gentlemen. Rene is our most comely whore male or female.” I feel you stiffen a bit at that--just for a moment--and I wonder which part of that sentence bothered ya the most._

_Rene slowly stands and tilts his chin to invite you to join ‘im. You nod, and he smiles at you while gently pulling you up. While I’m negotiating with Madam Angel, you allow Rene to guide you upstairs._

_When I get to the room, I find you standing next to the large bed relaxed with your eyes closed. Rene is standing at yer back nuzzling yer neck while ‘e slowly unbuttons yer shirt from behind. Ya both look beautiful and perfect. Ya both look up at me when ya ‘ear me come in. I pull off my mask and toss it aside. Rene murmurs somethin’ in yer ear about me, and you smile._

_You turn in his arms so he can see yer face when you take yer mask off. ’Is expression is something’ to behold like he just unwrapped the best birthday present ever. ‘e starts whispering in Spanish. I ask him later, and ‘e tells me ‘e’s tellin’ you how handsome ya are--‘ow beautiful. ‘e peppers yer face with kisses as you pull out ‘is shirt and run yer ‘ands all over ‘is chest and back._

_I take off my clothes without ever lettin’ my eyes leave ya. Now, generally whores, catamites, don’t kiss customers, and we both know_ you _never kiss’m. But, here ya are; kissin’ ‘im slow and tender. His eyes are side with surprise for a moment, and then ‘e closes them and kisses ya back. I can see yer tongues sliding and caressin’._

_I move behind ya, and ya lean back against me pulin’ Rene along with ya. I start takin’ off yer breeches as Rene undresses ‘imself never lettin’ ‘is lips leave yours._

 

The next time Athos was aware of his surroundings, dawn’s early light was leaking through the single window, and he was lying in bed draped over Porthos ... naked, sticky, sweaty, and sore. Images flashed through his mind--some fantasy some what he and Porthos had done.

_He saw d’Artagnan laid over Treville’s desk as Porthos took him--so strong and powerful._

 _He saw himself straddling Porthos head to tail as they sucked each other like their lives depended on it._

_He saw Aramis sitting up on his knees in Porthos’ lap kissing him as Athos slowly inserted another finger stretching him wide._

_He saw himself naked in the Garrison taking Porthos’ big cock all the way down his throat as d’Artagnan fucked him slow and steady from behind._

_He saw Aramis, in the grove, standing naked and beautiful in front of them stroking himself off as he stares into their eyes._

_He saw Porthos sitting on the table in this room opening himself for Athos to fuck him._

Athos groaned and scrubbed at his eyes. He opened them and looked around the room.

It was in a shambles with furniture overturned and at least one broken chair. It reeked of sex. He had the mother of all hangovers. Worse, a feeling of dread seemed to be building in his mind.

He nudged Porthos who responded by snoring louder. 

“Porthos. Porthos, get up. We have to go. This is not right. Porthos.” Athos attempted to peel himself off his brother as Porthos rolled over taking Athos with him and depositing him on the floor with a loud thud. “Porthos!”

“What ... what?” Porthos slowly opened one eye and took a second to focus it onto Athos. “What are ya doin’ on the floor?”

Athos grunted in frustration, “You ... never mind. We have to go. I think yesterday in the tavern ... I think we did something very bad. I think we may have caused something very bad.”

 

Athos quickly dressed and went downstairs to fetch a quick breakfast and to order the horses readied. From the tavern owner, he requested two buckets of water and some towels. While Athos was gone, Porthos righted the room. 

The water and towels were brought up by Marie, the tavern owner’s wife. If she noticed the men’s sorry state, she didn’t say. She was to caught up in sharing the sparse details of a body found in the stables naked and very much dead. “The killer snapped his neck,” she whispered.

The Musketeers had no doubt whose body had been found, but they refused worry about it now. The feeling of dread was growing in both of them. They cleaned themselves and ate in silent worry. Truth be told, they were starving.

When they left the inn, they found their horses, skittish and snorting, outside the stable and held by the same ginger-haired stable boy as yesterday. “They're a might touchy this mornin’. It must be the storm comin’,” he pointed to the southern sky, which was indeed grey and foreboding. Clouds were building and seemed to be moving against the wind.

Porthos grumbled something about bad omens. Athos, his mouth set in a grim line, nodded.

They mounted and set off at a speed allowing the horses to get there with minimal rest and maximum speed. They rode determinedly toward the grove and their brothers. Each man offering a silent prayer to Aramis’ god that they were not already to late.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Hecate learns of the plot because, really, the gods are not so fascinated with everyday minutia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No excuses. Just apologies.

**Just as Athos and Porthos leave for the Inn at the Crossroads**

Cardinal Armand Jean du Plessis, Duke of Richelieu and Fronsac, his bony fingers steepled in front of him, stood behind his desk contemplating the mildly capable Red Guard at attention before him. ‘Sadly, he is the best soldier I have.’ Yet another reason to be forever annoyed with his rival for the King’s affection, Jean-Armande Treville. ‘The musketeer captain always seems to attract the highly competent, highly capable, and highly irritating. Well, there was nothing to be done for it now.’ “Jussac.”

“Your Eminence?” Jussac responded habitually keeping his ice-blue eyes facing forward and his roundly jowled face expressionless.

“I have a mission for you. It is of the utmost importance that no one ever know about it--not in nature or in kind. Is that understood?”

Without moving anything but his lips, Jussac replied, “Yes, Your Holiness. It will, of course, be as you say.”

“Indeed,” Richelieu paused to moving slowly around his behemoth of a desk and stand to Jussac’s left side. He continued _sotto_ voice, “A baby was kidnapped several weeks ago--a _noble_ baby. Now, the parents have been quite distraught as you can well imagine.” Richelieu waited for Jussac to nod in agreement then continued as he started to circle Jussac, “One of my spies has located the child on the Rue d’Alembert in a Greek bakery. Apparently the wife of the baker lost a child recently and decided to _borrow_ someone else’s. 

“You will go to the bakery, quietly retrieve the child, and bring it back here to be reunited with its parents without a fuss. In order to preserve the privacy of the noble family, you will enter the palace through the servant quarters and make your way to the cellars. At vespers, I will meet you there. Do you understand?” The Cardinal paused and waited for Jussac to acknowledge his instructions. As he had stopped behind Jussac, he had time to once again sigh at the ridiculous thick, blonde, braid the man wore down his back.

Jussac broke into a light sweat. He knew His Eminence’s story about the child was suspect; although, he did not truly care. He knew the Cardinal would have no compunctions in killing him if he ever shared this mission with anyone, and he did not intend to do so. He knew how to be discreet. The problem was the street name. 

Richelieu had been circling him as he spoke. Jussac had been in the regular army for seven years before becoming a Red Guard. Specifically, he had been in the artillery battalions for all seven years. Understandably, he was a bit deaf in his right ear. Jussac thought the Cardinal said _Rue Delambre_ , but he was not positive. Having seen His Eminence dress down any number of priests, courtiers, and his fellow Red Guard, he had no desire to be on the receiving end of the Cardinal’s vitriol. Ruefully, he thought, ‘Well, there was nothing for it.’

“Well, man. Get on with it,” Richelieu waved his hand in dismissal as he settled himself in front of his behemoth of a desk, pulled the top parchment of a pile, and began reading.

Jussac, relieved to be dismissed, quickly exited the Cardinal’s offices and headed out of the palace and toward the stables.

 

**Just as Athos and Porthos Arrived at the Crossroads**

Jussac tied his horse at the top of Rue Delambre, a street in the heart of the Latin Quarter, which surprisingly surrounded a small enclave of Greek patisseries. The area was bustling with several languages being hurtled across streets and alleys as well as with day workers and house servants dashing to and fro completing jobs and errands at a fervent and loud pace. 

Jussac tucked his braid into his oldest, most faded cloak--a cloak only another old soldier might recognize. He pulled his hat down low to shade his blonde eyebrows and light-colored eyes. Casually, he walked the several blocks of the street. He was feeling more confident at the end of his stroll. There was only one bakery on this street. The glut of patisseries seemed to be a block over closest to the Parc Luxembourg and Notre Dame.

This shop was out of the way; yet, the street and show were busy enough to keep the owners and any nosy onlookers focused on their own business and not his. Satisfied he’d heard the cardinal correctly, Jussac circled around the shop and into the alley behind it to plan his next move.

 

**Just as Rochefort Snapped the Sword Maker’s Neck**

Jussac sat hunched over in the darkest corner of the oddly sunny alley. The back doors to the bakery were wide open letting out the heat of the ovens and helping to cool the bread and pastries resting on the shelves just inside the doors. Jussac was considering altering his basic idea of slipping in the back and grabbing whatever child he could find when a pretty young girl with blue bows in her flouncing mass of thick black curls stepped into the alley. Her thin arms cradled a basket holding a babe still too young to walk on its own. 

“Ήσυχa μωρό μου. Απόλαuσε τον ήλιο όσο μπορείς.” The girl leaned over and kissed the babe. She straightened her flour-covered apron and skipped back inside.

Jussac tapped his forehead over the glyph of Fortune, goddess of luck and chance. He smiled and closed his eyes offering a short prayer in thanks. Jussac was no fool. He knew his born talents were limited at best. His true gifts were his blessings. And, his blessings worked regardless of the morality of his need.

In the end, Jussac merely stood up and strolled by the basket scooping up the handles as he went. He was halfway to his horse before he heard the screams.

 

**Just as Rochefort Left the Inn to Race back to Paris**

The Cardinal took the basket of squalling, snotting, baby with a grimace. “All was as we discussed?”

Jussac, ever at attention, nodded. “It was actual child’s play, Your Eminence.”

Richelieu reached into his voluminous scarlet-dyed robes and handed Jussac a bag of coins, “For your trouble, of course.”

Neither man noticed the half-moon glyph glowing faintly silver on the baby’s forehead. 

Jussac took the bag, careful not to weigh it, in his hands, “Of course, Your Holiness.” At the Cardinal’s nod, he made the soldier’s perfect half-turn and exited up the grey-stone stairs as quickly as he could.

When Richelieu looked down at the basket, he saw nothing amiss, and he was relieved to hear the crying had stopped. The child was sleeping peacefully once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ήσυχa μωρό μου. Απόλαuσε τον ήλιο όσο μπορείς. = Sleep baby. Enjoy the sun while you can.
> 
> Greek translation is from the web. If you are a speaker of this language, feel free to correct me.
> 
> I am no Francophile. Street names were chosen from a modern list as I needed them to sound similar, and I couldn't read the names on the maps I pulled up depicting Paris in the 1600s. There is a Greek grouping of restaurants in the modern Latin Quarter of Paris so I went with it.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cabal of Four enacts their plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This chapter includes a human sacrifice that I have written in very broad strokes; however, the blood is a bit more detailed. If this bothers you, and it probably should, you can skip the sections entitled, Midnight in Paris, and Half-Past Midnight in Paris. You may go to the endnotes to see the Cabal's wishes as those do pertain to the story.

Chapter 24

 

**Almost Midnight in Paris**

In a small antechamber, somewhere in the dank cellars under the Old Louvre sat the two most powerful men in France, a sociopathic sycophant, a murderess spy, and an innocent. 

The warm, humid air was thick with the smell of ozone fronting an oncoming storm. 

“Could you not have picked a more comfortable location for this meeting of our little Cabal of Four?” His Majesty Louis XVIII asked petulantly. “For one thing, we are all exceedingly overdressed for this sticky heat.” Louis stood and held his arms out.

To his credit, Cardinal de Richelieu did not roll his eyes; rather, he dutifully stood behind the king and helped him remove his ermine-accented vest and gilded crown. “My apologies, your majesty, I have little control over our physical environment in terms of temperature. I assure you. This room was chosen for our _meeting_ as the chamber meets certain requirements laid down in the incantations.”

The Comte de Rochefort still in his riding clothes, his face slowly morphing back to itself from the hapless sword maker’s visage, groaned and removed his coat. “The reknitting of bones is the worst part of all of this.” He massaged his cheeks and chin. The others politely looked elsewhere as the man’s head shape slowly elongated and his hair lightened strand by strand.

A baby’s cry broke the silence. All of the men in the room turned toward Milady de Winter. Imperiously, she spoke, “I assure you gentlemen, of all the people in this room, I am the least maternal.” The men continued to look at her as the baby’s cries increased in volume. “Men,” she exclaimed as she scooped the child up by its armpits and balanced it on her lap. She awkwardly patted its back saying, “There, there.” 

The baby’s cries died down, and its eyes widened as it took in its surroundings. This baby, this innocent, had known love, hunger, anger, happiness, but not fear ... not until now. The child paled, and the crying stopped as Milady laid it back down into the bread basket. No one looked at the Innocent again so no one noticed the baby’s newest glyph, a poppy, momentarily glowing faintly red above its brow. 

“Midnight is almost upon us. Are your wishes prepared? Are we ready to begin?” The dusty timbre of Richelieu’s well-used voice sank to the floor in the moist air startling all but the baby, which had fallen back to sleep.

 

**Midnight in Paris**

The Four rose as one to move to the main chamber to begin the ceremony. Milady carrying the basket containing the still-sleeping child made up the rear. 

Louis could not resist the chance to boast of his family’s forethought. “Although, the Old Louvre had been razed during the time of King Francis I, the basement and cellars were still intact. My father had the tunnels dug to connect them to the New Louvre hiding the entrances and exits behind greek statuary honoring the Gods whose blessings we royals bear. Not that it helped him, but he thought there should always be escape routes. Until today, the Cardinal and I were the only two yet living who knew of their location.” He paused waiting for the usual gratitude his history lessons received.

Rochefort, seeing a chance to gain favor, chimed in, “Your Majesty’s family is certainly most blessed among the crowns of Europe. Surely no other head of state had such clever builders.”

The King nodded; although secretly delighted, his expression was well-practiced to convey detached wisdom and a level of boredom only achieved by the nobility.

The Cardinal moved the extended arm of the Greek goddess Hera. The statue slid to the left revealing the opening to the main chamber. As she entered, Milady bowed her head to the statue as she, herself, carried a similar blessing. It was propitious to know that the Queen of the Greek Gods and the goddess of family marked all of the royals of every house in Europe for Hera represented family when on display or for show. She was a goddess of power through family lines. Lines that were as impeccable and as beautiful as possible. Milady gently tapped the peacock feather glyph on her forehead and smiled.

The room, lit by candle light from black candles of various sizes and thicknesses and precisely placed oval mirrors adorning the walls and floors, reminded Richelieu of the gloaming rather than midnight. A faint shudder ran down his spine. He ignored it.

The others noticed a long ebony table and an alabaster altar. The cardinal moved to stand in front of the table containing an oversized book. He opened the volume slowly and with great effort as if the thing itself weighed as much as if it were made of granite. When he found the page he was looking for, he carefully picked up the tome and centered it on the altar.

“What language is that?” As usual, the King’s curiosity was getting the better of him.

“It is the language of power, Your Majesty. It is hard to learn, but I have made myself fluent as, I’m sure, is His Eminence.” Rochefort’s haughty tone was not lost on the others.

“It is an old language that sounds somewhat like Latin but is not. It is difficult to learn and takes years to _truly_ master.” Richelieu glared at Rochefort

Rochefort ignoring the slight, took out his athame, and reached for the basket in Milady’s hands. He carefully removed the sacrifice and laid it directly on the altar in front of him. Milady removed the basket and placed it on the table.

The Four stood around the altar; although, the King made sure to place himself next to and slightly behind the Cardinal. He had no desire to witness what he knew was coming.

Richelieu began to read from the book. To the King, it sounded like a backward Latin of sorts. The Comte, familiar with the language of the dark arts, listened intently for his part. At the appropriate time, Rochefort offered up the two wishes of the blue cloaks couched in dissonant, unrecognizable syllables. He then drew the athame up in both hands by its snake-covered handle and plunged downward.

The silver flickered in the candlelight as blood dripped from the tip. Something squalled on the table. 

Milady held the Innocent down until the noise stopped. The King blanched and turned his face away. Rochefort’s bones slithered under his skin. The Cardinal read on.

 

**Half-Past Midnight in Paris**

“It is time to speak your wishes. Dip your fingers in the sacrifice, put your hands over your ears, and speak your desires.” The Cardinal knowing the King would need a moment went first. He traced the fingers of both hands sensuously through the blood as if stroking the chest of a lover and covered the sides of his head. 

The King drew his hands into claws and struck the sanguine fluid with his fingertips in as if about to strike an archicembalo. He shook them fastidiously and closed his eyes for a moment as he covered his ears. 

Milady daintily dipped her fingers in and placed the tips on her ears safely away from her hair. 

Rochefort rubbed both hands in as if he were a child at play and smashed them to his ears letting the blood run down his neck.

The Four, unable to hear each other, revealed their deepest wants, and as one, they unknowing imitated the dissonance of the dark language.

The King: “I Louis the XVIII, King of France, wish this sacrifice bring to me my due--a fertile and well-matched wife to love me and in return be loved by all, and that our progeny will seed the houses of Europe so that all are favorably tied to the House of Bourbon.” Louis closed his eyes and tried to ignore the blood slowly drying in his hair by picturing portraits hung in the great rooms of the Louvre--portraits of his growing and happy family.

The Comte showing off; although, none could hear him, spoke in the old language: “I, the Comte de Rochefort, wish this sacrifice to bring me my due: I will have a women beautiful enough to be an empress as my wife, I will command the greatest French military in all of history to many victories, and my name will go down in history as the world’s greatest general.” He straightened his back and imagined the many bloody battlefields he would conquer. He did not know that his odd accent and unpracticed tones changed the specificity of his wish in ways he could not imagine.

The spy: “I, Milady de Winter, wish this sacrifice to bring me my due: I will be the Comtesse de la Fere for all my long, adult life, and that I will know all the riches and respect that title affords the bearer including a life with true love.” On impulse, Milady rubbed two fingers of her left hand over her heart leaving a red double infinity sign on her ivory, powdered skin, and quickly resumed covering her ears.

The Cardinal: “I Cardinal Armand Jean du Plessis, Duke of Richelieu and Fronsac and Chief Minister to the King of France, wish this sacrifice to bring me my due: I will have all that I have now, triple my riches, as well as physical and mental control over anyone whom I bed.” Richelieu eyed the king speculatively, and then envisioned a certain King’s Musketeer kneeling naked before him--debased and debauched. He smiled at the warmth spreading low in his belly.

 

**Approaching Noon in Paris**

“How long must we wait down here, Cardinal. It is dank and dusty, and I am hungry and tired.” The childish king stomped his right foot with each descriptor and flopped back into the large wooden chair he had recently vacated.

“Your highness perhaps remembers my previous explanations?” Richelieu raised a gray bushy eyebrow and waited. Receiving a blank stare from his king, Richelieu continued, “Although, we performed the ... ah ... ceremony here in Paris, the actual wave of change originates from our opposite wishers, Athos and Porthos of your Musketeers, your Majesty.”

“And why did we need their wishes. Could we not have found some musketeers here in Paris?”

“The wishes had to come from our opposites,” the Cardinal hedged not wanting to tell the king about perceived good versus bad and how from a powers of the universe view The Inseparables were definitely the perceived good. “Two blues to our reds.”

“There are _four_ of us, Cardinal,” the King spoke as if to a child.

“Yes, Your highness, we were not able to retrieve all four blue wishes in the time allotted. However, the two Rochefort gathered were amazingly strong and managed to cover our needs. The signs and portents I read confirmed that Athos’ wish allowed for Milady’s to work as well as for my own. Porthos’ covered both Rochefort and your’s, Your Majesty.”

“How is that possible? What did they wish?” The king sat up. Curiosity was one of his strengths.

“I’m afraid I cannot reveal them, Your Majesty. Once I translated the wishes, the meaning was lost to me,” Rochefort explained.

Richelieu sat down, “We must stay locked inside this room until we receive some proof that things are changing. That time is rewriting itself on our behalf.”

“Oh, bother. How long must we wait? Milady, don’t you think it has been a long time?” The king turned to where the murderess was seated. Finding her chair empty, he scanned the room, “Milady? Milady?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Their Edited Wishes_
> 
> The King: “I Louis the XVIII, King of France, wish this sacrifice bring to me my due--a fertile and well-matched wife to love me and in return be loved, and that our progeny will seed all of the houses of Europe so that all are favorably tied to the House of Bourbon.” Louis closed his eyes ... by picturing portraits hung in the great rooms of the Louvre--portraits of his growing and happy family.
> 
> The Comte showing off; although, none could hear him, spoke in the old language: “I, the Comte de Rochefort, wish this sacrifice to bring me my due: I will have a women beautiful enough to be an empress as my wife, I will command the greatest French military in all of history to many victories, and my name will go down in history as the world’s greatest general.” He straightened his back and imagined the many bloody battlefields he would conquer. He did not know that his odd accent and unpracticed tones changed the specificity of his wish in ways he could not imagine.
> 
> The Spy: “I, Milady de Winter, wish this sacrifice to bring me my due: I will be the Comtesse de la Fere for all my long, adult life, and that I will know all the riches and respect that title affords the bearer including a life with my true love.” Milady rubbed two fingers of her left hand over her heart ... on her ivory, powdered skin, and resumed covering her ears.
> 
> The Cardinal: “I Cardinal Armand Jean du Plessis, Duke of Richelieu and Fronsac and Chief Minister to the King of France, wish this sacrifice to bring me my due: I will have all that I have now, triple my riches, as well as physical and mental control over any man I choose to bed.” Richelieu eyed the king speculatively, and then envisioned a certain King’s Musketeer kneeling naked before him--debased and debauched. He smiled at the warmth spreading low in his belly.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan is painfully called back to the Garrison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to do this as the last chapter in this timeline, but the piece grew into a beast so I separated it into two chapters. I will post the next entry this weekend.

**Dawn at the Grove, the Day of the Wave**

Both men dressed only in their breeches restarted the stretches all musketeers learned while still cadets. Standing less than a boot-length apart, d’Artagnan performed the fourth round of the first stretch reaching out with his sword hand while lunging with the same-side leg. 

Aramis mirrored the stretch using his left hand. Although, not as naturally ambidextrous as Athos, with his brother’s help, he had learned to defend himself with either hand well enough when needed. He could tell Athos had been working with d’Artagnan as well.

Both men seamlessly switched to reaching with the opposite side. Aramis moved so deliberately and gracefully that d’Artagnan had to force himself to slow down. Already feeling a bit agitated, he was getting impatient with the pacing of it all, “Honestly, can’t we just spar?”

“Have you always been in such a rush at the break of day, and I have been to preoccupied to notice?” Aramis asked favoring him with a wry grin and a wink. “Or, has the perfect monotony of our perfect grove finally done you in?”

D’Artagnan grabbed Aramis’ hands in his own, “Aramis, please. Can’t we do something else?”

“As you wish my impatient brother; however, if I pull a muscle later, you will be rubbing it out.” Aramis relaxed his stance but did not release d’Artagnan’s hands. Instead, he studied them for a moment twisting his wrists this way and that. 

“You say that as if it would be a punishment. I don’t see it that way, at all. What?”

“What?”

“Why are you looking at my wrists? Is there something wrong with them?”

“No ... ah ... no. I feel compelled to do something I have not done since taking Porthos and Athos to my bed. Will you allow it?”

“That depends. What is it?” D’Artagnan stared into Aramis’ eyes and felt himself warming at the depth of affection he saw there. “Alright. Do as you will.”

Aramis chuckled at the look of exasperated resignation he saw reflected back at him. “I have always wondered why all of my loves and my captain look at me the way you do now and still let me do as I want.”

“Because you have wrapped us all around your little finger.” He pulled Aramis’ hand to his lips and softly kisses his knuckles. He grinned at the soft gasp he elicited from Aramis. “ _Mon loup,_ I love that I can surprise you even just a little bit.”

“ _Mon loup?_ I am your wolf? Do I look so very predatory, my only whelp?” Aramis flashed a toothy smile as he led them to their bedrolls. Aramis smoothly dropped to sit cross-legged and pulled d’Artagnan to sit facing him.

“You have an amazing ability to look friendly, protective, fierce, and downright lethal as you choose.” Not to mention majestically beautiful. “And, as I know you can be all these things, then yes, _mon loup,_ fits you, I think.” He dipped his head shyly but held Aramis’ eyes.

“Well, I suppose a wolf such as the one you describe would have a pup.” Aramis took d’Artagnan’s hands into his and closed his eyes. He ran his fingertips over the Gascon’s wrists and systematically worked his way around and up both hands with soft and even strokes and swipes.

“Aramis, what are you ...”

“Hush, I’m memorizing.”

“Memorizing what?”

Aramis’ hands stilled against his. He whispered as if to a child, “Your hands. I’m memorizing your hands.” He took a breath and continued circling lightly around and up toward his fingertips

“Why, and why are we whispering?”

“So, I’ll know you in heaven, and I don’t know.” His slender fingers worried d’Artagnan’s sword calluses for a moment and then moved on.

Pondering that last remark, d’Artagnan stayed silent as Aramis finished mapping his hands for that is what it looked like to him.

Aramis opened his eyes to look into a set of dark, curious ones. He smiled because he held this memory in his mind. He was sure it was a bit fractured, but it was a memory nonetheless. 

“Due to an illness my father’s mother contracted a year after marrying my grandfather, she was completely blind. The most important thing to her was family. She said she would know our family’s voices anywhere, but not our faces.” We have that in common I think. “She was a devout woman and assumed her sight would be restored when in the presence of Our Father. 

“So, to ensure she would be able to gather us to her, she memorized our hands.” He paused and gave d’Artagnan one of those fleeting, shy smiles that made him look so much younger than his years. “I imagine her up there right now shaking hands with all manner of people feeling palms and fingers and listening to them speak.” He smiled again and shook his hair out of his eyes. “It always seemed a practical solution.”

D’Artagnan smoothly flipped their hands over and closed his eyes. “After the past two days, I think I would know your hands anywhere, but I see no reason not to be thorough.”

This elicited another small gasp from Aramis.

“Ah, _mon loup._

 

**An Hour Later**

After some sparring with rapiers and hand-to-hand left both men covered in sweat and dirt, they decided to once again rinse off in the brook and sun themselves on the warm rocks. This time they laid out closer together. 

Dangling his feet in the cool water, Aramis dozed with his head against d’Artagnan’s upper arm. He felt he had only closed his eyes for a few minutes when he heard d’Artagnan begin muttering in his sleep. As, Aramis reached over to stroke the boy’s belly in an effort to soothe him, d’Artagnan shot forward with a yell almost dumping them both back into the brook. 

“Easy! ... D’Artagnan, easy. It is alright; your with me. I’ve got you. It’s alright.”

D’Artagnan was groaning as he pressed his palms against his forehead. “Burning. Aramis, it’s burning.” The pain brought tears to his eyes.

Aramis kneeled in front of him and gripped the Gascon’s wrists and gently tugged them away from his head. He held them tight against his chest with one hand as he examined d’Artagnan’s forehead with the other. “D’Artagnan, how many blessings do you carry?”

“What? Why” He tried to pull his wrists from from Aramis grasp, but could not. “Aramis?”

“What blessings? Please, it’s important.” Aramis’ eyes continued to study d’Artagnan’s forehead.

“Mars, Persephone, Hestia. Why?”

“Yes, shield and spear, pomegranate seed, flame ...”

“You can see them? That’s not possible not without the Captain’s powder.”

“I know this, and yet ... Oh.” Aramis paused his mouth forming a perfect circle as he stared at the boy’s forehead in awe. It was rare to the point of unheard of to gain a blessing as an adult. The evidence was incontrovertible however. The symbol of the crescent moon was burning it’s way onto d’Artagnan’s forehead just above his left brow. “You are gaining another blessing ... I believe it is Hecate’s crescent moon ... D’Artagnan, this is amazing.”

“It’s not amazing; it ... is ... painful. I feel like someone is drawing on my skin with a hot poker.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. His teeth were starting to hurt. Oh no, not the voice, too.

_”You are receiving my blessing child, be grateful. You will need my help and guidance for the coming storm.”_

D’Artagnan groaned. “My teeth are rattling, my bones ache, and the top of my head feels like it will burn off on its own. You will forgive me if grateful is hard to come by at the moment.”

“Who are you talking to My Whelp?” Aramis still held the boy’s wrists in his hands, but now he was staring into his eyes with a look of grave concern.

“I’m guessing, Hecate.”

_”Yes, it is I. You are in grave danger. You and all you hold dear. You must leave this place and return to Treville. He is one of mine. You need to leave as fast as possible. The wave grows closer by the minute. You must ride now. Go to Treville. He will need your help. GO!”_

“I can’t leave quickly. We have only one ridable horse, and we are awaiting our brothers.”

_There is no time. You must leave the priest behind. He will not be able to help you now. GO!”_

“He’s not a priest, and I am not leaving him behind.”

“What priest? Leaving who? D’Artagnan, what are you talking about?”

Abruptly the burning stopped, his teeth and bones settled, and his mind was again his own. He took a calming breath and then another three. “Hecate was speaking to me, _loudly_. She seems to think I need to ride back to the Garrison. Back to the Captain. He needs my help because a wave is coming.”

“A wave? A wave of what? The sky is somewhat grey, but it is dry enough. And, who is the priest you would leave behind?” With his thumbs, Aramis was absently rubbing circles onto the insides of d’Artagnan’s wrists..

“I don’t know what kind of wave. Hecate was annoyingly vague; however, I believe you are the priest I will _not_ be leaving behind.”

“My father wanted me to be a priest. That is not anything I have ever wanted for myself. I find that kind of obedience difficult.” Aramis shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “D’Artagnan, if a goddess who has deigned to bless you commands you to return to the Garrison, I would think it prudent to do as she says.”

“She wants me to leave you alone and not wait for Athos and Porthos.” A defiant look dared Aramis to challenge him on this. “I promised them we would protect each other. I’m not leaving you here alone.”

Aramis smiled at d’Artagnan as he pulled him to his feet. “I am not a damsel in distress, my whelp. I am a wolf, no? I can handle myself for the few hours that it will take for our brothers to return. In the meantime, you will take my Cozette and ride to Paris. My girl is fast; there is no way to get there quicker.”

“Aramis ...”

“Come. Time is wasting.” Aramis released one of d’Artagnan’s wrists and began to lead him back toward the camp. “You must heed Hecate. Did you know My Captain also carries her blessing? This is not a coincidence. I do not think she will lead you astray. Hurry.”

Aramis dressed quickly and readied Cozette. He made sure the saddle bags were stocked with anything d’Artagnan might need for his fast ride and, to encourage her speed, his last fresh apples and dried dates for Cozette. In Spanish, he whispered instructions into Cozette’s ear to mind d’Artagnan and to travel as fast as she could.

D’Artagnan dressed and gathered his weapons. He walked quickly to the horses. “Aramis, I am ready; although, I still do not feel good about this.” D’Artagnan stepped behind his brother and rested his forehead on Aramis shoulder. He wrapped his arms around the older man’s waist and sighed. “I do not wish to leave you hear alone, _mon loup_.

Aramis turned in His Whelp’s arms. “You are not leaving me alone. I will have Minuit for company until our brothers return. You must heed the goddess. If our Captain needs you, you must go.” Aramis cupped d’Artagnan’s face with one hand and laid the other over his heart.

D’Artagnan immediately began matching his breathing to Aramis’ and moving his own hand to cover the marksman’s heart. They both closed their eyes for a minute. When they were in sync, the Gascon’s lips found his brother’s. The kiss started out slow and somewhat chaste but quickly heated up as d’Artagnan let his hand move to caress Aramis’ chest through his shirt.

Aramis moaned and reluctantly pulled away from his whelp. Breathing heavily, “D’Artagnan ... You must ride. Go ... Before I ... ” 

D’Artagnan nodded and mounted Cozette. “ _Mon loup,_ I ... I ... ” Looking down onto Aramis’ face so beautiful and open, he found himself speechless.

“I know, brother. It is the same for me.” Aramis smiled up at d’Artagnan and gave him the reins. “Now, ride.” 

He stepped back as his whelp urged Cozette forward first at a trot and then working up to a gallop. Aramis followed the short trail on foot. When he reached the road back to Paris, he watched them until he could no longer see even a speck in the distance. He turned back toward the perfect grove and sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for continuing to read. Due to RL, I am not the fastest poster. Please comment and let me know what you think.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this the end of everything?

**Mid-Morning Halfway Between the Inn at the Crossroads and the Grove**

Athos and Porthos stopped mid-morning to give the horses a rest and to fill their water skins. 

They found themselves sliding and pressing against each other as they moved through their small resting area. 

Finally, Porthos grabbed Athos and kissed him hard as he slid a leg between Athos’ thighs. Athos teasingly ran his hardening cock up and down before abandoning that idea in favor of rutting against Porthos.

“Tis the drink, still? I think my cock might actually fall off.”

Athos groaned into Porthos mouth and slowly pulled away, “I never thought I would say any drink was evil, but the Blue Fairy is truly cursed. We will have to work through it.” He paused wincing at the memory, “I say again. I think we have made a grave error, Porthos. We have to protect them and then try to fix it. We need to retrieve our brothers, return to the Garrison, and see the Captain.”

Porthos took a step toward Athos and visibly struggled to pull himself back to his mount. He hauled himself up onto his saddle, took a deep breath, and said, “Let’s ride, brother. The sky looks awfully dim for mornin’. I think the stableboy was right. Must be a storm comin’ in.”

Athos breathed in and out a few times and mounted his horse as well.

As both men rode toward their brothers, they each found moments, images, snatches of talk, and emotions around their missing brothers blooming in their minds like the summer roses under the Comtesse de la Fere’s windows.

 

_”Athos, why do you want me here? I tried to kill you.” The Whelp’s eyes downcast._

_“Yes, and then you successfully saved me.” D’Artagnan’s eyes flickering hopefully back up at him._

_****_

_“Don’t you care about Porthos?” Aramis’ eyes blazing at him._

_****_

_“Have you asked yourself: what then?” Oh, the look in Aramis’ eyes for that._

_****_

_“I understand you are upset with us brother, but we could not choose Marsac over our Captain. I don’t think we could ever do that not after what Marsac did to you.”_

_“No, I suppose not. But, I had hoped you would choose me--that you would always choose me.” Eyes hard and flinty and cold._

_“We always choose ya brother ... we failed in lettin’ ya know that. Lettin’ ya know every day. Please, forgive us.”_

_****_

_“I wanted to apologize, Porthos. For a moment, I said you might be guilty.” D’Artagnan’s face turned grim as his eye’s filled with regret._

_“And Aramis didn’t kill ya where ya stood?”_

_D’Artagnan snorted, “I think he wanted to, but he calmed himself by slamming me into a wall.”_

_****_

_“I can’t believe you slept with the Captain!”_

_“Stop thundering, Athos. It is not what you think.” Aramis’ eyes filled with sorrow._

_Porthos placed his hands on the sides of Aramis’ face. “Then what is it?”_

_“It is much worse,_ mes amis, _much, much worse.” Aramis pulled away and looked at the floor._

 

**Mid-Day at the Grove**

Aramis spent the time after d’Artagnan left at loose ends. He cleaned up as much as he could leaving out only the items needed for his brothers to eat a quick lunch before chasing after the whelp. He fed Minuit the last of his dried apples and checked her leg. They would have to double up, but she should be fine to travel unencumbered. He sharpened every knife and cleaned every gun in an effort to distract himself. After all that, he still found himself sitting and waiting. 

He noticed an odor of ozone on the air but there had been no lightening. Minuit, restless, pawed at the ground and whinnied every few minutes. Aramis felt his leg muscles and fingers vibrating as if a great battle were about to start. He needed to calm down so he pulled out his rosary. He said the prayer for each bead four times once in Latin for Athos, once in French for Porthos, once in Gascon for d’Artagnan and the captain, and once in Spanish for himself.

As he finished the last prayer and kissed his rosary, he heard the pounding hooves entering the grove. Both riders pulled their mounts up short and leaped to the ground. Athos tossed his reins to Porthos who wrapped them both haphazardly around a low tree branch before rushing to his loves.

“Aramis, thank God,” Athos breathed as he reached his brother and tugged Aramis to him. He buried his face in Aramis’ neck and inhaled the soothing scents of sandalwood and jasmine. 

Concerned, Aramis wrapped his arms around Athos and said, “What is it? What is wrong now?”

“What do ya’ mean now?” Porthos pulled Aramis from Athos and crushed him in a mighty hug. “Are ya’ all right?”

“I’m fine. D’Artagnan ...”

Athos quickly looked around and noted Cozette was missing. “Where is d’Artagnan?” He grasped one of Aramis’ arms and turned him away from Porthos. “Where is he? Why is Cozette missing?”

“D’Artagnan, he ... This morning, he received another blessing.”

“What?”

“I know. It was the crescent moon, Hecate. She told him to ride to the Garrison as soon as possible. She said a wave was coming.” Aramis studied both of his brothers. Athos’ eyes were heavy with guilt, and his posture was tense almost rigid. Porthos looked unusually anxious his breath coming in soft pants. They knew something. Using his best imitation of his Captain’s command voice, “What is it? Tell me.”

Porthos straightened up, and Athos turned to face him again. Aramis took each of their inside hands into his his own and softened his tone, “Brothers, whatever it is, we will face it together. It will be all right.”

“No, I’m not sure it will. We made a mistake. A horrible mistake. And, now ... a storm is coming ... or a wave or ... “

“What mistake? What happened?”

“Rochefort, the bastard. ‘e tricked us. ‘e slipped us Blue Fairy in our drinks. Got us to wish for things. And, now ...” Porthos waved his free hand around toward the fast moving clouds. “this. This storm or wave or ... We’re so sorry, Aramis.”

“Why are you apologizing to me? You said he tricked you.”

“He did, but we should have returned as soon as we knew something was wrong, but he cursed us.”

“How? Are you alright?” Aramis scanned them again--this time for injuries. Finding nothing, he caught Porthos’ eye and commanded again. “Tell me.”

“Instead of coming back to ya. We spent the evening experiencin’ every fantasy we’ve ever ‘ad about all of us ... talking about ‘em ... acting ‘em out. We shoulda’ come back to ya to both of ya.”

“Do not forget, I have some experience with the Blue Fairy myself. I understand its power.” Aramis frowned and pushed away thoughts that had no bearing on today’s events. “If this is truly as bad as it seems to be, enjoying fantasies sounds like a lovely way to spend a last night together. You will have to tell me about it over our next campfire.” 

Aramis grinned at Athos and winked at Porthos. “I am not angry _mes amours_ or jealous. D’Artagnan and I also spent the evening together. Do not worry about this. It changes nothing between us.”

“Aramis.” Athos’ voice much too small. “You don’t understand. We should have come back. We should have.” Athos bowed his head.

To Aramis, that was unacceptable. “Athos, look at me.” When Athos hazel eyes met his own, he continued, “I have no doubt you would have returned if you were able. This is water under the bridge. What do we do now?”

Porthos turned to look at the sky behind him. “I swear the clouds are movin’ faster.” He frowned looking at Minuit. “We can’t outrun it. Not with two tired ‘orses and three riders.”

Athos steadied himself under Aramis’ gaze. “Then, we shall have to make a stand, here.” Athos grabbed Porthos’ loose hand forming a circle. “We shall hope that with Cozette’s speed d’Artagnan will make it to the Garrison before this storm or wave hits.”

Aramis was facing the storm. His blessings tingled and itched on his forehead. He looked at his loves and intertwined his fingers with theirs. “How do we fight the weather?” 

He studied the clouds over the hilltops. He could see it now. This was not weather--at least not natural weather “D’Artagnan was right. It is not a storm. It is a wave but not of water. Air? “My God. It is swallowing everything in its path. The trees are disappearing. The road ... The wave is too high I can see nothing behind it.” 

Porthos looked back again and realized that Athos was right. They couldn’t outrun this thing. In the distance, Porthos saw the swell like those he had seen at sea only opaque and moving much to quickly. He’d heard tales of rogue waves over a hundred feet high taking out all ships unlucky enough to be in the path. He could never quite picture it before, but he could now. He understood the speed of waves. In minutes, it would be upon them. 

He looked back at Aramis. “No. No.” He pulled Aramis around until his back was to the wave, and he and Athos faced it. Aramis looked at him a question forming on his lips. Porthos shook his head. “I swore I’d never abandon you, and I meant it.”

Athos nodded to Porthos and then looked at Aramis. “We will never leave you alone.” 

Athos’ eyes shone wetly at them. He took a breath. He was not good at this; yet, it seemed beyond urgent to say out loud what he had felt almost since their first meeting. He turned toward Porthos, his voice scratchy and raw. “Porthos, _mi amour._ I never conceived of meeting anyone like you. You soothed every sorrow and eased every pain. 

Porthos closed his eyes. His lips pressed tightly together.

“Aramis,” he continued turning back to face him. Athos paused and smiled softly, _te amo, ... te amo, ... te adoro, ... te amo.”_

Aramis stood tall and proud. He stared into Athos’ eyes, “I believe you.”

Porthos tried to pull all of the feelings he had for Athos off his sleeve and onto his face. “ _Frère bien-aimé,_ you’re all things to me ... all things good and solid in this world ... all things safe and home.” 

Athos let out a small, dry sob.

He turned to Aramis and took a calming breath, “You will always be my beautiful ...” His voice cracked. His eyes filled and caught Aramis’ pleading for understanding.

Aramis, his eyes so bright and open, nodded giving him a sweet smile, and responded again, “I believe you.” 

Aramis smiled. Words of love and affection have always flowed for him. “My beautiful brothers, My Pirate and My Mountain Man. Since we met, you have been my reasons for breathing, for not breaking, for loving, for living. I have forgotten so much but never you. Never you. I am so grateful ... so blessed. Always.” He also knew when to stop talking and to act instead. He squeezed their hands and leaned in to kiss first Athos whose kiss was soft and warm with promises of everything good and real and then Porthos whose kiss engulfed him with pure protection and bliss. 

He smiled fondly as he stood back. Athos and Porthos kissed as well eyes lingering on each other’s faces before pulling away. “No, I will not abandon you, either. We will face this together. We will make a stand together.” Aramis let go of Athos’ hand and turned to face the oncoming wave.

Porthos understood. He gripped their hands harder--Aramis at his right and Athos at his left.

“Porthos ...” Aramis began concern deepening the lines around his eyes. The rest of his question was cut off by what sounded like an oncoming tornado. Realizing he would not be able to make himself heard, Aramis began David’s Psalm:

_Dominus pascit me, et nihil mihi deerit: in pascuis virentibus me collocavit, super aquas quietis eduxit me, animam meam refecit._

_Deduxit me super semitas iustitiae propter nomen suum._

_Nam et si ambulavero in valle umbrae mortis, non timebo mala, quoniam tu mecum es._

_Virga tua et baculus tuus, ipsa me consolata sunt._

_Parasti in conspectu meo mensam adversus eso, qui tribulant me; impinguasti in oleo caput meum, et calix meus redundat._

_Etenim benignitas et misericordia subsequentur me omnibus diebus vitae meae, et inhabitabo in domo Domini in longitudinem dierum._

 

While Aramis prayed, he watched as the surge rolled toward them eating the trees and ground cover. He could taste the ozone, acrid and heavy, on his tongue . The sun dimmed in the sky. He heard the brook churning as if the water was boiling over the rocks. Athos’ and Porthos’ horses were next. The horses, sensing something was very wrong, neighed and whinnied as they pawed at the ground and struggled against their leads. Disconcertingly, the wave covered them tail to forelimb so that only the heads seemed to be left floating in the nothingness until they too disappeared. 

He heard Athos gasp, “Roger ...” 

Porthos shouted, “One for All, ...”

As the wave breached their stand, the last sounds heard were of The Inseparables shouting “and All for One.”

Then ... silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Psalm 23: David’s Psalm_
> 
> The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
> 
> He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside still waters.
> 
> He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
> 
> Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
> 
> Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
> 
> Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.
> 
> *****
> 
> This was difficult to write both in content and in blocking. Please let me know what you think.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Treville and d'Artagnan step into their new world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter to get things moving.

**Moon Rising, Summer Solstice, Paris**

D’Artagnan crossed the Seine and entered the city proper. He slowed Cozette to a fast trot and headed directly for the Garrison. As Cozette easily navigated the crowded streets, he marveled at the quality of Aramis’ Andalusian. Cozette had taken the combination of gallop and trot like she was born to it. She was powerful and perfectly trained by Aramis himself. 

D’Artagnan considered himself knowledgable regarding horseflesh as he had spent seasons working on his Uncle Luc’ horse farm. He and his father had raised their fair share on the farm as well, but Cozette was another level of horse altogether.

One day almost a year ago while Aramis was demonstrating Spanish cavalry techniques to him using Cozette, Athos told d’Artagnan that Aramis trained her in the _jineta_ way starting when she was a filly. Neither Porthos or Athos had been able to discern where Aramis, the son of a brandy distiller, learned the riding style of Spanish cattle ranchers, and Aramis himself did not remember. 

When they were done and waiting for Aramis to finish feeding Cozette dried apples, Porthos whispered that Cozette had been a birthday gift from Athos after Aramis had confessed over several drinks that he had always liked the look of the black Andalusian warhorses. “When Athos showed Cozette to him, ‘e actually couldn’t speak for almost an ‘our. Aramis, no sound. Can ya imagine?” Porthos shook his head in wonder. 

“ ‘e just took Athos and I by the ‘and over to Cozette, and we all just stood around admirin’ ‘er like she was the Dauphine or somethin’.” He nodded fondly toward Aramis and Cozette. “They’re beautiful together. Ain’t they?”

D’Artagnan rolled his neck and glanced over his shoulder frowning at the grey skies and clouds moving against the wind. Speaking to the Andalusian the way Aramis always did, “You are a princess, Cozette. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Now, let’s get home as quick as we can so we can see what is going on with this wave.” He gave Cozette her head and she nickered as she increased her speed toward the Garrison and the captain.

 

**The Garrison, Paris**

D’Artagnan barely slowed Cozette’s gallop as they raced through the Garrison’s front gates. He pulled her up short as they reached the center of the yard and leaped off her back. 

Jacques was instantly at his side. D’Artagnan glanced at the sky and threw the rest of the dried fruit to the boy saying, “Take good care of her. She is a princess, you know.”

“Oh, I know. Aramis won’t let me forget it.” The boy started singing one of Aramis’ lullabies off key as he gingerly held out a palm for Cozette to get at the dates.

The Gascon raced up the stairs to the captain’s office. When he reached the door, he pounded and started shouting, “Captain! Captain! I must speak with you. It is urgent. Aramis, he sent me. He’s ... Please!” Feeling his eardrums pop, he put his back to the door to face the oncoming storm.

He heard the sound of scraping wood behind him and without turning, “Captain, what is that?” He turned to look at his captain and watched Treville look out onto the city. In the distance, they both saw a wave like those at sea only opaque and moving much to quickly. In seconds, it would be upon them. 

Treville grabbed d’Artagnan’s arm and yanked him into his office with one hand and used his other to close and bolt the door. 

D’Artagnan found himself facedown on the floor and struggled to right himself. He heard the captain whispering.

“Shhh. It is almost here. This will not be pleasant, but do not worry. It will be quick.”

“Captain ...” The rest of d’Artagnan’s question was cut off by what sounded like an oncoming tornado. Both men grabbed their ears as the pressure dropped again and the air was sucked out of the room. D’Artagnan was sure he was yelling; yet, he could hear no sound. He realized he could make no sound. He closed his eyes and waited for the wave to pass.

 

**The Red Guard Barracks, Paris, Moments Later**

Treville released him after the wave passed; yet, neither man made a move to stand up. They just rolled each to a side and stared at each other. 

“What ... what was that?” D’Artagnan croaked, his voice the sound of staw on cobblestones.

“I fear that was a Wave of Change and the end of all we hold dear unless ...” Treville attempted to stand heaving himself up much like Athos might after a drunken fall outside the steps of The Wren.

D’Artagnan decided to try a slower approach to getting up off the floor. He rolled back onto his knees and used his hands to climb the desk in front of him ... the wrong desk in front of him. “Sir, something is wrong. This desk ... isn’t yours bigger ... and darker?” He looked to his captain for answers.

The Captain turned to examine the desk. He gestured toward it. “That is not mine. Nor is the room. My bed is under the window, and the armory door should be here to the left.” He took a deep breath and pulled out his athame and used the tip of the blade to tap a small drawer located on the left side of the desk. Nothing happened. “We need to leave right now before we are discovered.” Treville slid the knife back into his sash, grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him to the door. 

“No, wait. What is going on? Sir, I left Aramis alone. Porthos and Athos should have been heading back from the Inn at the Crossroads. The wave ... Sir, it would have overtaken them before I arrived ... well before I arrived.” His stomach clenching with a nameless fear. Not nameless, d’Artagnan thought, this fear has a name, wrongness. Everything seemed wrong somehow. “What is happening?”

Treville paused and examined the boy. He appeared to be uninjured. He was not frantic or panicked, but he was gravely concerned and worried for his brothers. “What made you come here? Why did you leave them?”

D’Artagnan took a breath to organize his thoughts. “This morning, I received another blessing, Hecate’s. She spoke to me, painfully. She said I needed to return to you ... that you needed me. I didn’t want to leave, but Aramis made me. He said I couldn’t ignore the commands of a goddess.” He paused to gauge Treville’s reaction but saw nothing useful in his face. The man could give Porthos a run for his money in as far as having a good gambling countenance goes. “So, I raced here on Cozette because Minuet went lame yesterday.”

“Hecate rarely blesses adults,” Treville mused as he noticed his gloves and blue cape on the bed. He said a prayer of thanks to the Goddess and grabbed them. He tied his cape on and put on his gloves. “For Hecate to call you to help me means this is worse than I first believed.” He took another steadying breath, “Wishes were made, a spell was cast, and our world ... our world is no more.”

“What?” He felt his body go cold, his insides frozen in disbelief.

“Our world is no more. The wishes altered the course of time somehow. Hecate told me it could be fixed, and that it was up to us to fix it.” He paused waiting for d’Artagnan to speak, but the boy just looked at him as if he had grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead. “If I am correct, the world outside this door will be similar to ours but not the same. Your brothers will be here but not the same. We will not be here. Hecate made it so that we were never born in this world. I imagine that caused some changes as well.” The Captain nodded at the room around them. “It is up to us to right this wrong.”

D’Artagnan swallowed thickly, fear for his brothers and Constance causing his heartbeat to quicken in his chest. “Yes, sir.”

He grasped the bolt and paused. “I don’t know what we will see outside so you must prepare yourself for anything.” With that, Treville slid the bolt and slowly pulled open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Jineta_ style is way to train Spanish cattle and war horses. This style contributed to the fall of the indigenous peoples of the New World as the native warriors did not have strategies to fight mounted foreign enemies. Watch _Guns, Germs, and Steel_ on PBS for more information.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville and d'Artagnan cautiously explore the new world.

Well, d’Artagnan thought blinking against the brightness of the sun. The sky is still blue, the wooden balcony still creaks when I walk on it, and the Parisian summer air is still fetid with the humid stink of people and animals living too close together. “Sir,” d’Artagnan started as he followed his captain down the rickety stairs.

Head down, he nearly plowed into the back of Treville when he stopped on the last stair seemingly frozen in his spot.

“Sir,” respectfully d’Artagnan waited and then impatiently, “Sir? Are you alright? What is it?”

Treville mumbled an unrecognizable response, paused, and repeated in a whisper, “Cornet.”

“What? But, he is dead.” The younger man raised his head to look over the captain. He espied a slight but visually striking man of the captain’s generation teaching footwork to some young red guards. He was barefoot. Silver hair loose and streamed behind him as he danced around them demonstrating moves not unlike the smooth and graceful steps Aramis practiced with him just this morning. D’Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment at the memory of his missing brother ... brothers. 

“Sir? He’s dead. Cornet is dead. I saw his body. Why isn’t he dead?” 

Treville stepped off of the bottom stair and turned to look at the boy catching him make the sign of the cross in a manner eerily reminiscent of his best marksman. He wondered briefly what else had happened on the mission. He forced his mind back to the more difficult thoughts around Cornet’s obviously energetic breathing. 

Whispering, “Cornet was killed in an attempt to frame Athos as a highwayman. Perhaps, there was no need. Or, Athos is not a musketeer. Or, for whatever reason, Athos is not significant to the Cardinal.” Treville found his eyes dragged back to his now resurrected closest friend and dearest brother. He took a deep breath and willed his eyes to stay dry.

Cornet dismissed his recruits and turned toward his office. Noticing, for the first time, the men at the foot of the stairs. He spoke clearly without challenge, “Gentlemen, are you looking for the Captain?” He strode with purpose and odd speed to stand directly in front of Treville.

Porthos voice sounded in his mind. _Always place yerself in between the main weapon an’ the person yer protectin’._ D’Artagnan moved around his captain--to the side and slightly in front of Treville--directly blocking Cornet’s sword arm. 

Cornet smiled slightly and nodded in approval at the well-trained young soldier. He glanced at the older man and frowned at the confusion he saw on his face. Cornet held up his hands palm out, “I will ask again. Are you looking for the Captain of the Red Guards?”

Treville shook his head and responded, “Yes. We are envoys from Gascony sent to report on Spanish activity near the border.”

“Who sent you?”

“Baron de Laà,” Treville fervently hoped this Cornet was just as ignorant of Gascon nobility as his had been since Treville had never actually met the Baron.

Cornet grunted softly. “Well, you have found him.”

“Who?” D’Artagnan asked shaking his head, “de Laà?”

“What? No. Why would a Baron be here?” Cornet shook his head in turn. “You have found me, the Captain of the Red Guards. I am called Cornet.” He paused waiting for the polite response to a one-sided introduction. He looked pointedly at d’Artagnan while raising his right eyebrow and slightly dipping his chin.

Remiss in his duty, d’Artagnan blushed and quickly gestured to his Captain, “My apologies. Captain Cornet, may I present Captain Treville of the ...” He paused as Athos’ voice rang in his head. _Pay attention when Aramis spins stories to those he interrogates. You must be quick to add in the information that will stretch his tale and persuade a prisoner to talk. I find it difficult, but not impossible. You, of course, will be better at it than I._ “of the Baron de Laà’s private guard.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the slight nod of approval from Treville.

“The Baron has a private guard?” Cornet questioned the Captain.

“Yes,” Treville, leaning in one soldier to another and allowing his Gascon accent to come through, intimated, “You know the noble kind--a bit paranoid, yes?” Treville lifted his musket. “He even calls us his musketeers.”

Cornet chuckled as he studied the soldiers in front of him. Both men though disparate in age carried themselves as well-trained fighters--too well-trained for a Baron’s personal guard. It was possible they were mercenaries, but he did not sense the immoral spirit he usually saw in men who killed for the highest bidder. “Yes, well, why don’t we head up to my office, and you can share the latest intelligence about the Spanish and Gascony?”

Cornet gracefully moved around them and up the stairs. D’Artagnan noticed barely a creak under the swiftly moving soldier. He supposed ghosts only made noise when they wanted to. He glanced toward Treville who seemed frozen again. “Sir? Captain?”

Treville blinked and pinched the bridge of his nose in a manner similar to Aramis’ habitual warding off of an imminent headache. D’Artagnan wondered if Aramis picked up this particular tick from the captain. He smiled promising himself to start cataloguing his brothers gestures and movements to see if he could trace them back to the older musketeers. Gently, he placed his hand on Treville’s arm, “Sir, we need to follow him.”

Sighing deeply, Treville moved up the stairs. As he walked up, he began formulating a story to tell Cornet that he would believe. So far, the man seemed very much like his Cornet; although, he noticed the man did not wear a wedding ring. His Cornet had left behind a widow and three fleet-footed, silver-haired girls each more lovely than the next. However, he realized, he had been the one to introduce Cornet to the lovely Bernice. He felt a pang for his brother. Has he been lonely all these years? Who are his brother’s now? He knew first hand the lonely life a Captain leads ... the isolation. He halted this train of thought as they reached Cornet’s office. It would not help the matter at hand to dwell on the changes the wave wrought. At least not now.

Cornet left the door open for them. Inside, he gestured for the men to each take a seat across from his desk. Once seated, he began, “So, gentlemen. What can I do for you? Do you wish me to introduce you to the Cardinal to share your information, or would you rather I carry the message myself?”

“Why don’t we share our intelligence with you, and you can decide what would be best?” Treville responded as if he delivered this type of information every day because he did.

Cornet smiled thinking this man is no private guard to a baron no one has heard of from a province no one ever visits. “Gentlemen, what of the activity?”

“The Baron insisted we bring this information, but, in truth, it is not all that concerning. We have seen several training exercises over the past year--all staying on the Spanish side. The Baron, however, was sure the king would want to know.” Treville grinned making a show of being embarrassed to deliver such trivial information.

“Well, it is no secret that the king has little trust in the Spanish king especially after the assassination of Anne of Austria.”

Treville’s eyes snapped to attention as d’Artagnan blurted, “Assassination? When? Where?”

Cornet unconsciously reached for the dagger he kept strapped to the bottom of his desk. Something was not right with these men. Surely, the the murder of the Infanta would have reached the backwaters of Gascony. “Perhaps, you gentlemen should go over the circumstances that brought you here one more time?”

Treville sighed again. They would have to do better at concealing themselves, or they would be dead before they started. He decided his Cornet would appreciate a more likely approximation of the truth. “We are musketeers. We are both born and bred in Gascony. We,” Treville gestured toward d’Artagnan, “Are not worried about the Spanish at the moment. We are; however, very worried for three dear friends, brothers, who are fellow musketeers.”

D’Artagnan listened to Treville’s rewording of their mission and frowned. There was no way to know that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were soldiers in this world. He couldn’t imagine any of them as Red Guardsman. He was having trouble believing Cornet was the Captain of the Red Guard, and the man was sitting in front of him with his scarlet cape draped over a hook right behind his head.

“And you felt the need to lie to me because ...”

“We do not know the location or situation of our brothers. We have not seen or heard from them in quite a long while. We thought it best to be cautious.” D’Artagnan supplied.

“Well, these are interesting times,” Cornet stopped speaking and studied them again. He did not know why, but he marked them as trustworthy. He found himself wanting to believe them for some reason, perhaps, because they were so obviously soldiers. “I wish to know more about these musketeers of which you speak.”

“Of course,” Treville responded. He leaned forward a bit. He knew this characteristic of his brother. Cornet always had the ability to sort out the important from the incidental and focus on it above all else. He would circle back to ensure his understanding of all that was said, and the man’s mind was a steel trap. Treville had no doubt he would know all before they were done.

“Who are the soldiers you seek?”

“Athos, who may be going by his title, the Comte de la Fare. Porthos du Vallon, possibly the Marquis Belgrade, and Aramis, who was once known as Rene d’Herbley. It is quite likely the man is a priest.”

“Well, I only know one as a soldier. The other two are only sons and the heirs to their fathers' estates and titles. Why would they be musketeers as you call yourselves?” Cornet paused waiting for a response. When none was forthcoming, he continued. “I do not know the Comte personally. De la Fare rarely comes to court unless his wife demands it. It is obvious enough that she rules that roost, and court gossip says that she would prefer to stay here in Paris. Some say she would prefer to stay here while the Comte stays in Pinon.”

Milady, is still Athos’ wife? D’Artagnan frowned. Nothing good could come of that. And, only sons? What of Thomas?

“I believe the Belgrade you seek is the son of the Marquis. I have heard him addressed as Porthos during several of our run-ins. He is the illegitimate son the Marquis claimed when he was fifteen. It is said he found Porthos in the Court. Du Vallon is renown for his skill with cards and other types of gambling, his carousing, and he is not afraid to use his fists, either, whether the situation warrants it or not.”

“Porthos is a man of honor and peace. He would never use his strength without cause.” D’Artagnan interjected.

Cornet scowled then, “And, Aramis? Him I know and have for years. That man is no priest; although, he does work for His Eminence. He is the Cardinal’s man”

“What?” D’Artagnan jumped out of his chair. “You lie. He would never. Captain, tell him. Aramis would never work for Richelieu ... not ever.” Aramis’ voice rang in his head _Be careful you do not insult a man whose information or cache you need. Keep to the mission, always._ D’Artagnan winced in regret at his outburst. “Please accept my apologies. I do not mean to imply your words are anything but truthful.”

“Easy, son, we do not know what this world had done to our brothers.” Treville motioned him back into his seat. “We mean no offense, Captain. It is just that you are not describing the men we know.”

“Perhaps not, but I am describing the Comte de la Fere, the son of the Marquis Belgrade, and--God help me--the Cardinal’s assassin.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville and d'Artagnon experience _deju vu_ as they stumble onto some painful truths.

_“Easy, son, we do not know what this world had done to our brothers.” Treville motioned him back into his seat. “We mean no offense, Captain. It is just that you are not describing the men we know.”_

_“Perhaps not, but I am describing the Comte de la Fere, the son of the Marquis Belgrade, and--God help me--the Cardinal’s assassin.”_

 

“Captain,” d’Artagnan turned towards Treville, pleading. “He would not. Aramis would never do this.”

“Not in our world, no. But here, who knows?” Treville again closed his eyes and pinched his nose; a pointless gesture as he already had a headache. 

Cornet stopped and ran the proceeding conversation through his mind again. _Our world?_ “Captain?”

Warily, Treville looked up.

“Peace, brother. Twice you have spoken of this world as if there were another. What do you mean by this?”

Mind like a steel trap Treville reminded himself. Treville resigned himself to the difficult conversation to come. “I would speak more of this with you, but I would prefer a place more private to do so. Is this possible?”

“It is evening, and The Red Guards’ Barracks are usually quiet at night. However, if you prefer, we could meet in your rooms.” Cornet offered.

Treville countered, “Ah, well we have not as yet had the chance to obtain rooms. Would you be so kind as to suggest a suitable inn? We would gladly meet you when you are through.” 

Cornet took a breath. He was making quite the leap of faith, but there was something about this man, Treville, he could not ignore. “My landlady keeps a room on retainer for me when I am required to house messengers from the provinces. I will send word to have it ready for you. I’m afraid you will have to share. Have you eaten?”

“Thank you, Captain. And, no, we have not,” d’Artagnan responded. He had never travelled with any musketeers except his brothers; however, he assumed someone aiding a captain would take responsibility for finding rooms and food for the night.

Cornet nodded to the younger man. “I will send Jacques to let Madame Gerard you will be arriving in a few hours. I will give you an address for an inn I know. The food is hearty and, for Paris, reasonably priced. Look for me around midnight. I should be finished by then,” he gestured to the mountain of paperwork precariously balanced on the edge of his desk.

Treville smiled. His Cornet detested paperwork and had procrastinated completing it like it was his only vocation. That thought made his heart ache a bit. Although, he felt much of this world was wrong, it felt so right to see his brother.

D’Artagnan had no such qualms. All of this was wrong. Athos and Milady still together? Porthos nothing but a spoiled son of the nobility? And Aramis, an assassin? He would not believe it--not until he saw it with his own eyes. And, if any of it or all of it turned out to be true, he would save them. He would save his brothers. He would save this Aramis so that he could save his Aramis. He let out a small gasp. When had Aramis become _his_ Aramis? What of Constance? God ... or Goddess. He hadn’t even asked.

“Captain, sir? I would like to locate another as well. Her name is Constance Bonacieux. She works as a seamstress. Indeed, she sewed our cloaks. Her husband is a cloth merchant.” 

“I know the Bonacieux. Jacques Bonacieux found the material for our capes as well; however, I’m afraid you will have to place your clothing orders elsewhere. Last year, for the King’s birthday party, Madame Bonacioux designed and sewed a dress for the King’s sister, Henrietta Maria of France. Her Highness was so taken with the gown she insisted the Bonacieux accompany her back to England to be her Royal Dressers.” Cornet noticed the Gascon’s stricken expression, “Son, are you alright?” 

Treville turned toward d’Artagnan. He realized, belatedly, the boy had a somewhat questionable relationship with Madame Bonacieux. “Yes, well, we can sort out our apparel orders later, lad. Let’s get some food. It was a long ride, yes?” He made eye contact with the boy and held his gaze until d’Artagnan nodded in agreement. They rose as one. 

Cornet scribbled an address on a slip of paper and handed it to Treville, “The address of the inn. Ask Thierry, the barkeep. He can give you directions to Madame Gerard’s. Tell him I sent you.” He glanced worriedly at the younger soldier, “I’m sure you will feel better with some food in your belly, son.” He clasped each man’s forearm in turn and opened the door for them. “Until tonight, gentlemen.” 

Lost in their thoughts, neither man spoke as they walked in the direction of the recommended inn. 

Finally, d’Artagnan spoke, “Captain, sir, this is real. Isn’t it?” 

Treville stopped and took in his companion’s expression--sadness, longing, and quite a bit of trepidation. Unconsciously, he put on his captain-as-surrogate-father face. “Son, I don’t know how, but, I promise, we will get through this.” 

“Sir? What are we supposed to do?” D’Artagnan sighed, realizing he sounded like a rather petulant child. 

Eyeing the street with a soldier’s surreptitious glance,“Let’s continue this conversation at the Inn. This area looks oddly familiar. Hopefully, we are close by.” 

“Yes, sir. I believe we are near the Court.” 

Treville steeled his expression as he thought of all that occurred with Charon and the Cardinal’s machinations. Without The King’s Musketeers to interfere with their plans, what would have happened? What did happen? 

The Captain checked the address again. He did not recognize the street names in this area and stopped at a flower stall to ask. He was pointed a bit farther south and promised that he would not be able to miss it. The flower merchant was correct. He would have know the inn anywhere by the dancing horse, or rather pony, on the sign proclaiming to all that they’ve arrived at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. 

The Captain stopped when he heard d’Artagnan’s gasp as he, too, noticed the sign. “Do you know this place, son?” 

“Aramis’ story of The Pirate and the Inn of the Prancing Pony, it happened here. But, that would mean we are near the entrance of the Court of Miracles. Sir, look around. The streets are clean for Paris,” he pointed in the direction of the Court. “There are houses and shops ... _nice_ houses and _nice_ shops. What’s happened?” 

Treville frowned and motioned toward the door of the inn, “Not here.” It came out sharper than he intended. “Let’s go inside, son. Find a table. Eat. Talk.” 

His Captain’s uncharacteristically staccato delivery worried d’Artagnan more than he cared to admit. He realized he was missing something. Something big. “Yes, sir,” he stepped in front of the man and pushed open the door of an inn that so far he had only seen in his imagination. 

The way Aramis described it; he expected a rundown, seedy tavern populated by highly questionable men doing highly questionable things--the kind of place where a man watched his back with one hand on his purse and the other on his sword. This place ... this place was clean, the dark wood polished, the comely barmaids bathed. This Inn of the Prancing Pony, he realized, was designed to attract the burgeoning merchant class of Paris. Those living and working in this new section of the city. 

As always, Captain Treville entered the inn like he owned the place. He nodded to the barkeep and held up three fingers. The barkeep straightened his apron and immediately abandoned his other patrons to secure the distinguished-looking soldier a table near the fire. Three clean glasses and a bottle of wine appeared in front of Treville as well as a third chair set to face the door. D’Artagnan followed his captain to the table and took the newly arrived chair. The Captain lifted both eyebrows at the young man. 

“I assume I am ensuring your continued safety, sir.” D’Artagnan stated with a slight smile, “If so, I must be able to see the room. Unless, you would like me to stand at the bar ...” 

Treville smiled remembering the long ago meeting with Porthos and Aramis, “No, this is fine. You are getting better at knowing what is needed and when. The soldier becomes the musketeer.” 

“Thank you, Captain.” Repeating Aramis’ words soothed his soul releasing some of the tension he was holding in his stiff neck. He rolled his shoulders and reached for the bottle of wine to pour their drinks. As he handed Treville his glass, he studied the man’s intense expression. He noticed how the older Gascon seemed to be cataloging every nuance of the tavern. “Sir, what happened. Why has it changed so much?” 

“Tell me what you notice.” 

“The inn is too nice to be this close to the Court of Miracles. Although, there does not seem to be a Court. The area seems newly built. The people,” he stopped considering his phrasing, “The Parisians all look like they were born here for generations. It is not right. This area should be filled with men and women from everywhere. Where are all of the ... poor?” he finished weakly. 

Treville considered that last bit. He had been so busy noticing the things; he had overlooked the citizens themselves. “Bonnaire and Charon. They are what’s happened. I would stake a year’s wages on it.” 

“Bonnaire and Charon ... but Aramis killed Charon and Bonnaire is ... reaping the rewards of being a snake. Yes?” 

Treville gently smiled at the younger man. “Charon was killed by our Aramis _not_ the Cardinal’s assassin. Bonnaire was placed on one of his own boats by the four of you in our timeline. Yes, I know. There are no musketeers here. So ...” 

“The combination of the Cardinal boosting the King’s coffers with money garnered from the slave trade and Charon colluding with his Eminence to secure his own fortune ... oh my God, or Goddess. Sir, everything we’ve done? D’Artagnan paused trying to wrap his mind around all of the possibilities. “Vadim? Countess de Larroque? Marsac? The dead soldiers of Savoy? Your entire life as a soldier and musketeer.” 

“The outcomes of everyone you listed depended on The Order of the Blue Cloaks, you, or me. There is no telling what has changed; although, for myself, I would be pleased if my men who died at Savoy still lived.” 

“Sir, how will we fix this?” 

Treville remembered the painful conversation he had with Hecate just a few hours ago. 

_‘Hecate, please. What do I do?’_

_‘This thing is coming to pass. As you know, some events are immutable; however, this one is not. If left unchecked, this spell will lead to the breaking of the Blue Cloak. The Cloak must stand. It’s protection to humanity--to what it inspires humanity to become--is priceless._

_‘I am sending you an ally. He is almost here. I can and will seal this space so that you are protected. Both of you will remember the way things should be._

_‘You must find your men and reaffix their souls to the truth of their lives._

_‘Know this my faithful one. They will not all wish to change the course of their lives. The monsters are counting on this. For they all must remember and be willing to walk in the Blue Cloak for time to realign with destiny.’_

_‘Where do I begin?’_

_‘You and the passionate one will no longer exist in this new time. Your lack of existence is the price of protection. This will make your task that much harder, but it cannot be helped. Protection always comes at a cost._

_‘It is coming. You must hurry, my guardian, and let him in. You will need his help in mending the suffering of the failed priest. You must make your men once again acolytes of the Blue Cloak. Then, return the priest, the warrior, and the judge to the fold where they belong. Convince them of this thing. This will not be easy my faithful servant.’_

“Hecate said the change is not fixed in time. She said there must be an Order of the Blue Cloak, and our brother’s must take their place within its fold,” he paused taking in d’Artagnan’s wide eyes. 

He took a breath, “We must convince the King to establish his musketeers. We must convince our brothers to want it ... to be the men there were intended to be. Our Goddess said it would not be easy as they may not all wish to change the course of their lives.” 

“I cannot imagine the men we know ... the brothers we know ... wanting to live as they do now.” 

“Not the men we know, but we don’t know _these_ men. Do we?” Treville softened his tone, “If we want to reinstate our timeline, our world, we will need to turn Athos, Porthos, and Aramis into musketeers-- _willingly_ into musketeers.” 

“How?” 

“That I do not know, but,” Treville paused his breath caught in his throat as he watched Cornet enter the inn. The captain’s silver hair was tied back under a hat even Aramis would’ve envied. He removed it with a flourish as he bowed his head acknowledging the older Gascon. Treville, in turn, nodded to the Red Guard Captain watching as he worked his way through the tables to join them. “Perhaps our brother can help.” 

D’Artagnan studied his captain as he watched Cornet weave between tables to join them. He thought he recognized the Captain’s expression. ‘Oh, Athos.’ Treville watched Cornet as he’d sometimes seen Athos observe Aramis when he thought no one was looking. Athos watched Aramis as if he were a Knight of the Round Table walking among mere men--a warrior as good and true as he was precious and rare. Treville, he realized, sees Cornet as Athos see Aramis. He sees him as someone he is not sure he is worthy of but certainly hopes and fervently prays that no one will notice. 

The memories of Athos covertly admiring Aramis made his heart ache. ‘Please Hecate. Grant us the strength to carry out this mission.’ Characteristically, when he needed a response, there was none forthcoming. 

“Gentlemen, have you had a chance to eat?” As he sat down, Cornet eyed the empty table and called across the room, “Thierry? Three stews, if you please.” 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing so much talking is slow going, but I believe it is necessary to build this new world. We will get moving eventually, though.

The men ate in companionable silence until d’Artagnan finished eating. He’d held himself in check for as long as he could. In an effort to contain himself, he let his mind drift to the last time he felt his questions might explode out of him--his first mission with his brothers. The Captain allowed d’Artagnan to accompany The Inseparables even though he’d yet to earn his commission. The task was a straightforward drop off of several of the king’s missives to a marquis who lived outside of Marseille. At Aramis’ request, they stopped one night in a quaint little village called Vals les Bains southeast of Paris. 

While Athos and Porthos sorted the inn and horses, Aramis invited d’Artagnan to accompany him to the square to see the sights, or sight, a fountain. As usual, while they walked, Aramis chatted. He spoke of the history of the village and the last time he had visited during winter two years ago. As usual, he never looked d’Artagnan in the eye always making sure they were shoulder to shoulder. 

When they arrived, he had not been impressed. As fountains go, it was a small thing--little more than a series of uneven concentric stones placed around an opening in the ground. It was nothing compared to the ornate fountains of the King. Aramis, however, studied the structure as if it were one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. For a few minutes, he would stare into the small puddle of water. Then, he would cast a glance at the sun, stare a bit more, and glance at the sun again. Much to the Gascon’s dismay, he repeated this pattern for almost an hour. 

D’Artagnan was new and didn’t want to appear rude to Aramis not when he had singled him out to share, whatever this was, with him. In fact, he had been surprised when Aramis suggested he join him to see the fountain as he didn’t think the sharpshooter liked him. After all, he couldn’t even be bothered to call him by his name. To the others, Whelp was a nickname they used interchangeably with d’Artagnan. To Aramis, he was only ever Whelp. He did not feel like Aramis had truly accepted him; although, in behavior, the handsome musketeer treated him no differently than any of the musketeers in the Garrison. Maybe, the marksman just didn’t feel he was worth noticing.

He realized he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. After riding for so long, he did not wish to stand still. He wanted to know what they were doing here. He wanted to ask why Aramis had invited him rather than one of The Inseparables. He wanted to walk around a bit. He wanted to eat and drink and listen to Porthos tell unlikely stories about Musketeer adventures. He did not want to stand still watching a feeble looking fountain with the strangest of his brothers. 

Finally, Aramis raised a hand and pointed to the center of the fountain, “Wait for it.”

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan groaned, “all I’ve been doing is waiting ...” He was cut off as he heard gurgling water coming from the hole in the center of the fountain. He turned toward the musketeer and involuntarily smiled at the childlike expression he saw on Aramis’ face. He looked back toward the fountain when Aramis pointed to it. As he watched, the water begin to bubble out of the ground. It popped up losing and gaining height two steps up and one step down over and over until all he could hear was the explosion of water and all he could see was a liquid spike surrounded by a curtain of mist seemingly falling from the very sky above him.

He noticed Aramis wipe his hands over his face and into his hair spreading the droplets falling on them. Using the water to clean off the dust of the road. He smiled. He had always wondered how Aramis always looked so much better than the rest of them--always so clean and fresh. Apparently, he took advantage of every opportunity that presented itself. The fountain was no exception. He copied the actions of the most striking of his brothers.

“What is this?” D’Artagnan asked, after his quick ablutions, never taking his eyes off the now diminishing column of water.

“It is called a geyser. You can tell time by it. It erupts every six hours like clockwork.” Aramis graced him with a shy smile. “Did you enjoy it, d’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan paused at the sound of his name. He took a breath and offered a smile of his own, “Very much, Aramis. Very much, indeed.”

 

“D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan, did you get enough to eat?” Cornet reached across the table and tapped the boy’s wrist.

“What, oh sorry,” he blushed at being caught out daydreaming. He watched the redheaded barmaid remove the empty stew bowls from the table. She smiled saucily at him, and he winced at a memory of Constance in her kitchen making bread and laughing at him. “My apologies, Captain,” he nodded at Cornet.

“No need for that. I sense neither your journey nor your task were of your choosing; yet, you are committed to doing your duty. I understand this, and I accept that I may be in a position to aid you; however, I’m not quite sure what I can do for you. Or, if I want to do anything without understanding what this is all about.” Cornet poured himself another cup of wine, settled back in his chair, and took a slow drink.

Treville sighed inwardly. It was difficult to makeup a convincing lie when he was not sure how much had changed, and Cornet, trained to strategize just as he was, would not be so easily misled. In fact, he thought it a fool’s errand to even try. “I would tell you the truth of it; although, I am fairly certain you will think us mad when I am done. I fear we will need a place more private than this,” Treville waved his arm at the dressed-up inn.

D’Artagnan looked at his captain with, he was sure, a ridiculous expression of surprise, trepidation, and incredulity. When he realized his mouth was hanging open, he snapped it shut, thought better of his silence, “Sir?”

“We have no choice, son.”

The Captain of the Red Guards took in the exchange between his table mates and grinned, “Well, as you say, I may think you’re crazy, but I’m bound to be entertained.” In a motion evoking Pegasus, the flying horse of old, Cornet gifted both men with a wide grin and a flick of the silver mane loose and flowing down his back, “Come, let us retire to my rooms where we can continue this conversation.”

 

**Cornet’s Rooms**

An hour later after meeting the landlady and leaving their cloaks and weapons in the single room next door, d’Artagnan found himself in Cornet’s rooms seated comfortably around a well-worn but sturdy table with four chairs--three even matched. A half-empty bottle of wine and four cloudy glasses dressed the time-stained oak surface. He frowned at that. The table was time-stained and worn. This world did not just pop up out of nowhere like the geyser at Vals les Bains. It was real, and for all intents and purposes, always had been. He folded his arms across his chest. How could they possibly fix all of this? 

Treville looked at the boy. The reality of the situation seems to have finally hit him. Good. Now was not the time to cloak oneself in false hope. The older Gascon took a healthy swallow of his wine and looked at Cornet. His friend seemed older somehow--his face a bit more lined. Perhaps, without the comfort of a loving family along with the combined duties usually assigned to the Red Guard and the Blue Cloaks, he had more to worry him. His grey eyes were as sharp as ever he realized as the man in question stared frankly back at him. 

Cornet licked his lips and pulled his eyes away from Treville and toward d’Artagnan. He smiled gently, “Gentleman?” 

Well, that was a bit different. In Treville’s experience, his Cornet had never given him any reason to think he considered men. The old Gascon felt a glimmer of hope make itself known like the warmth of a single candle on a cold and snowy night. Treville, never one to quibble, happily took what he could get and aimed a wry upturn of his lips at his long-time brother. Treville found Cornet’s corresponding light-pink blush in contrast with his argent hair quite fetching. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes:** According to a Salon article “The first author to list seven sites was Diodorus Siculus, followed by Antipater of Sidon, whose list matched Diodorus’ aside from swapping out the walls of the city of Babylon for the lighthouse of Alexandria. Philo of Byzantium wrote, "The Seven Sights of the World" in the 2nd century BC, matching Antipater’s list.”
> 
> I stumbled onto an account of the geyser at Vals les Bains through a post be the son of a WWII soldier. Unfortunately, I cannot seem to locate it now. The son purposely traveled to this town to see it based on the words of his father. So, I deemed it fitting for this story.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cornet considers suspending his disbelief--at least for the time being.

Chapter 31

 

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. Everyone whispered loudly that Aramis was a hound eager to lie with both men and women, but it had always seemed to him that Treville was the old dog to watch. Now that he knew Aramis gave the impression of a suave and skilled Lothario to direct attention away from his real lovers, he eyed the true seducer. He had a feeling Cornet didn’t stand a chance. It was not the time, however. So, wanting to focus finally on the task at hand, he cleared his throat and set his glass on the table. “Captain?” He turned his body to address Treville.

Treville nodded and steadied himself. No matter how he started, it was going to be difficult, “Cornet, what I am about to tell you may very well stretch the limits of your patience if not your very imagination.”

Cornet set his drink down as well and leaned into the table. “I am all ears, my friend.”

Treville took heart at being called friend and hoped that feeling continued when he was through. He took a breath, “Several days ago, I sent my best musketeers on a relatively easy mission to pick up a sword King Louis intended as a gift to the Duke of Buckingham ...”

To Cornet’s credit, he sat through the entire recounting of Treville and d’Artagnan’s last few days with the younger Gascon omitting only the parts Cornet and Treville did not need to know. The Red Guard captain’s face remained passive throughout showing only attentive listening--no emotion.

“... When it was done and the wave had passed, we opened the door of your office to find ourselves not in the Garrison but rather the Red Guard Barracks.” Treville finished looking intently at the only musketeer he’d ever considered a true brother of his heart. Several moments passed in strained silence--enough time for the two Gascons to worry they had pushed the man too far.

Cornet used this pause to consider the soldiers before him. They appeared to be well-trained, calm, sane fighters. He had no doubt both men were adept at using every weapon they carried and some they did not. Why would men such as these--men who had shown themselves to be nothing but honorable--spin such a convoluted and truly outlandish story? The silver-haired soldier slowly breathed in and out as he quickly ran through every rational explanation he could think of and some not so rational. Nothing made sense. What was to be gained--access to two lesser nobles no one thought important or even interesting? There _was_ Aramis to consider. Aside from the Cardinal, most purposefully turned away from him, and if they did not, they were afraid of the black-cloaked assassin. 

What could be lost--possibly his own reputation, possibly his entire world if what they said was true. Ridiculous. An entire world in place of this one? He had been born in this world. He remembered leaving the only home he had ever known to start a new life as a soldier. He remembered his first battle; Aramis saving his life by taking a bullet intended for him at the Siege of Montauban; his doomed lover, Marsac; and the day the young man had died at Île de Ré. All of these things happened years ago. How could they not be real, not be true? He looked at the soldiers in front of him and frowned.

“Gentlemen ... I believe you believe this, this tale, to be true; I am not sure how can you expect this of me. However, let us put that aside for now. I would like clarification before I share more of my thoughts.”

Treville winced feeling the jaws of Cornet’s mind slowly closing, “Of course.”

Cornet took a breath, “So, what exactly are musketeers?”

D’Artagnan let out a laugh, “We are servants of the the Royal House, the King’s Musketeers, the Order of the Blue Cloak. Most importantly, we are soldiers.”

Treville added, “We were founded in 1622 from Henry’s _carabiniers_. Louis gave me, us really,” he gestured back and forth between Cornet and himself, “the charge to form The Musketeers out of our company of dragoons. Aramis was, in fact, our first recruit.”

Cornet nodded digesting this information, “He was mine as well. What of the Red Guard? Does it exist? Because, it sounds like my Guard serves the same purpose; although, we answer to the king _through_ the cardinal.”

This could be the place of his ensnarement. Treville decided honesty was the best policy, “In our world, both the Red Guard and the Musketeers exist. We answer to the King. The Guard answers to Richelieu. We do not, as a rule, work together or even get along. The Red Guard are lacking in the strength of character required to be musketeers not to mention the skills. 

“In our world, you were a musketeer. None of us, including all of my missing men, would ever be in the service of the cardinal.” He held Cornet’s gaze declaring the truth of his words clearly for Cornet to see.

Cornet held his gaze. His confidence as a soldier and leader evident in his calm response, “This appears to be a question of honor to you. I assure you my Red Guards are worthy of their uniforms. We are soldiers of character. It saddens me to think that anyone anywhere would think otherwise.” 

He paused then conceded, “It was; however, difficult at first. The Cardinal sent me men of low morals and worth such as you described. After many battles, I approached King Louis and offered my resignation. He refused and granted me the right to recruit my own men. I am proud of the Guard. I am proud of my men.”

Treville smiled at this, “I would expect nothing less of you, my friend.”

D’Artagnan exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, “Truly, Captain, we mean no offense. It is difficult finding our way here. It is disconcerting that so much has changed and yet so much has not.”

Cornet turned to Treville lifting an eyebrow, “You said I _was_ a musketeer. Did I retire or ...”

Treville knew Cornet, as of yet, had not accepted his story. Mentally, he was combing through the words of the musketeers untangling details like snarled thread and entwining loose lines of information into a narrative that eventually he could plait into something comprehensible--something he could weave smoothly--something he could study, look for weaknesses, and unravel. He nodded to d’Artagnan letting him know this might take some time, to be patient, and to answer Cornet’s question as he was not sure he could keep his composure if he were to answer it himself.

With the acceptable bluntness of youth on his side, d’Artagnan explained, “You were killed needlessly so that one of the Cardinal’s men, Gaudet, could impersonate Athos.”

“Athos is the Comte de la Fere, yes?”

D’Artagnan sighed remembering that rainy night holding his dying father in his arms, “Yes, yes he was. Our Athos renounced his title and lands years ago.”

“Gaudet was one of the first men I rejected after Louis gave me free reign to recruit as I wanted. He was sent to me by the Cardinal. He struck me as unteachable and lacking in personal integrity.” Cornet studied the boy watching as sorrow and guilt storm across his dark eyes, “Son, I am sorry for you loss.”

Looking up surprised, “How did you ...”

“I know the look of loss, son. Most soldiers my age are intimately acquainted with it,” he nodded toward Treville. “Do you not agree, friend?”

“Yes, yes I do,” Treville felt the coil that had been tightening around his heart since he opened Cornet’s door ease just a bit.

“My father. Gaudet killed my father to frame Athos as his killer. To make his deception believable, he killed you ... the other you ... to get your uniform. I’m so sorry,” Truly, d’Artagnan was not sure why he was apologizing, this man was not dead--but it seemed important to do so.

Cornet nodded and poured them each more wine. 

Treville again signaled for d’Artagnan to wait. The three soldiers drank in companionable silence while Cornet silently continued to construct his tapestry of their tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear the table talk may take longer than the camping. These men seem to have a lot on their minds. I find them incredibly persistent in wanting to have their say. So, I indulge.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short entry to finish up the night.

**Chapter 32**

 

**Cornet’s Rooms**

Cornet rolled the story around in his mind. He could imagine one of these men crazy, perhaps battle worn, but both? In exactly the same way? Was it a charade? What would be the point? Telling this story to anyone in authority would likely get them thrown into _Hôpital Pitié-Salpêtrière_. Why risk it? 

Spies? Perhaps, but neither had the look to be anything but the Gascons they claimed to be. He had been to Gascony when the Red Guards served as protectors of the King on his tour of the area. He remembered many sheep, drinkable wine, and good, hardy men who looked like the two before him. Although, truth be told, d’Artagnan seemed a bit too tall for a Gascon--too tall for a Frenchman.

Cornet was not so foolish as to place blame based on appearances. D’Artagnan was tall for most men of most places. He was even taller than Aramis who had always stood above his brothers-in-arms. Both of these men were half-a-head taller than Treville who had stood eye-to-eye with him at the barracks. 

Cornet loosened his hair knowing instinctively that Treville’s eyes would follow the swinging of it. He smiled when d’Artagnan’s did as well; it was his oldest sword-fighting trick, and it always worked. He used the action to study Treville again. Aside from appearing a bit earnest at the moment, he was obviously a soldier’s soldier. He held himself straight and ready but with none of the stiffness or formality of the nobility. Confidence and righteousness came off the man in waves. Treville had the look of a long-time soldier. One who had learned to curb the impulsive, explosive energy of a young fighter such as his companion and channel it into a focused leader of men. 

Again, Cornet felt the urge to trust Treville rise up within him. He shook his head slightly and continued to consider this man. Treville was neither classically handsome nor particularly young. He was virile, though. Cornet felt a warmth spread low in his belly. It had been a very long time since he had felt anything like this, and never so quickly after meeting someone. It usually took a considerable amount of time, attention, and trust to lead him to any feelings akin to desire.

All of those things, Marsac had excelled in. His patience and care had eventually undone Cornet. It was Marsac’s qualities that led Cornet down a path from which he had yet to return. A path he’d doggedly walked alone for many years now.

Lord. Why was he thinking of Marsac now? Marsac had been an excellent soldier. Had he lived, he would have been the standard bearer for the Red Cloaks. He could hear Marsac’s voice now whispering the words he’d said their first night together, _Trust what is worth trusting in. Trust in your gut. Trust in me._

Cornet’s instinct, his gut, told him; although the story of these men was fanciful to say the least, the men themselves _were_ trustworthy. He had no way to prove their story, or disprove it for that matter so he took it off the table. He considered what he _could_ prove or disprove. He considered the quality of Treville and d’Artagnan. 

He had not seen them fight nor how they held themselves at court; however, he recognized experience and training when he saw it. He recognized the hunger to complete a mission--one that had not been requested but still bound in duty and honor to be done. He recognized the feeling of brotherhood these men instilled in him. _Trust what is worth trusting in. Trust in your gut._

“All right. I will help you under two conditions,” Cornet spoke slowly and softly. His grey eyes commanding both men away from the distraction of his hair and to his attention. “First, you will both join me tomorrow at the Barracks directly following muster so that I may run you through your paces. I wish to see who will be defending my back should push come to shove.”

Treville nodded holding his eyes steadily on Cornet’s seemingly approving of his choice for his first condition.

Neither man looked afraid to test his mettle. In fact, d’Artagnan smiled and leaned forward in his seat. He found himself wondering in what ways push could come to shove. 

“And, the second condition?” d’Artagnan asked.

“I have an audience with the King tomorrow afternoon. You will both accompany me as my guests, of course.” Cornet smiled as both men nodded again. “Good. Well, I will see you in the morning then.” He stood and indicated the door, “Sleep well, gentlemen.”

 

**A bit later that night in the musketeers’ room**

“Captain, I cannot believe Cornet accepted our story,” exclaimed d’Artagnan as he flopped down on one of the two creaky old beds lining either side of the small room.

Treville removed his weapons’ belt and doublet. He sat down a bit more gently answering as he removed his boots, “I don’t think he did. I think he believes us, or rather, _in_ us instead.”

“What do you mean?” Having divested himself of his weapons, boots, doublet, and hat, d’Artagnan picked his legs up, put his head on the lumpy straw pillow, and closed his eyes.

“He could neither disprove nor prove our story so he ignored it for now. He is focusing on what he can test--our skill as soldiers and our ease and familiarity at court,” he turned toward d’Artagnan. “Get some sleep for tomorrow I fear we will be treated as new recruits.”

D’Artagnan opened his eyes and turned to Treville, “Do you think it’s strange that we are not here ... that we were never here? I mean, I was thinking my father might still be alive since Cornet is, but five years ago I pushed my father out of the way of a runaway cart. He would have been trampled to death. So, is he dead now? Has he been dead for these last five years?”

The boy’s expression was so earnest so trusting that Treville had the answers he was seeking. No, not the answers--the assurances--that his father was alive and well that all was well and would be well. Treville was not known for offering platitudes. If he didn’t want to lay the truth out bare, he tended to not answer at all, or he barked orders to dissemble. Now, he frowned sadly, “I do not know. There are many men I have killed and many I have saved. Many of these deserved my actions; however, some did not,” he breathed pushing down the memories of Savoy. “I don’t know, and I’m not entirely sure I want to ...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Footnote:_ Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital was actually a converted gunpowder factory. Saltpeter is a component of gunpowder. It was turned into an asylum by Louis XIV in 1656. I deemed it close enough for this alternate timeline.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan realizes much has changed.

**The Red Guards Barracks**

The clanging of sword metal called Red Capes into the barracks like the bells of Notre Dame called worshipers to mass. Blacksmiths, stable boys, messengers, and kitchen help moved out of the shade of their workstations. Soldiers pushed away half-finished plates and left the breakfast table. Weary guard returning from night duty at the palace walked faster through the archway when they caught sight of their captain sparring in the muggy courtyard with an experienced soldier clearly his equal. 

Both men were focused and precise--no step unplanned no stroke unpracticed. The men whirled through the space forcing the ring of observers to continually reshape the impromptu ring they had formed into every widening ellipticals that shifted left and right.

From his perch on the banister outside of Cornet’s office, d’Artagnan marveled at the ballet unfolding beneath him. Treville fought like Athos with precision and the relaxed surety of an aristocrat. Cornet was more like Aramis--graceful, fluid, beautiful; his silver hair loose and flowing. Treville fought the distraction admirably certainly better that he, himself, had. He’d held his own; although, Cornet’s silvery locks were almost as bad as Aramis’ combination of predatory smile and twinkling eyes. Cornet won, in the end, offering advice as he complimented his footwork and energy. D’Artagnan found he wanted to try Cornet’s tips right away--against Aramis. 

_Merde._ It had barely been a day since he had last seen him; yet, he missed him as much as he missed Constance. And, not just Aramis, he missed all of his brothers. His chest hurt as he felt a wave of homesickness and sorrow crashed over him--a pain he had not felt since his father died. _Head over heart, whelp. Head over heart._ He heard Athos voice clearly; after several repetitions of his mentor’s mantra, he calmed. He focused himself on the spar below just in time to see each captain salute the other with a flourish and a bow. It would seem these soldiers were matched well--a draw. The spectators cheered at the demonstrated skill and shouted for a rematch tomorrow. Both men laughed as Treville signaled for d’Artagnan to join them at the table beneath his office.

“Please, take a seat, d’Artagnan,” Cornet waved at the open bench across the table from where the two captains sat shoulders barely touching. Serge, looking the same as their Serge, brought out a bottle of wine and three dingy and dented metal cups. D’Artagnan reached for the bottle, but Cornet beat him to it.

“Please, allow me,” Cornet said as his long, pale fingers wrapped around the neck and shoulder1. He poured full cups of wine and waved his hand over them to indicate they each take a glass. “Gentleman, here is to the best morning of sparring I have enjoyed in a good, long time.” With a clink of metal against metal, he smiled and tipped his glass back. The others followed suit.

“I enjoyed it as well,” d’Artagnan added. “I would be honored to spar again with you if you are willing?”

“Of course, my boy; although, I do not think I can show you much that you could not learn from your captain,” Cornet nodded his head toward Treville.

“I don’t know about that,” Treville added. “You fence even better in this time than in our own.”

Cornet laughed, “Well if that is true then surely my chances of living into my dotage will increase.”

Treville’s face fell. He turned to face Cornet, his voice rough. “Please don’t joke about that. Hearing of your death and having to tell your family was one of the two worst days of my life.”

“Family?” Cornet sputtered. “I cannot conceive of such a thing not as Captain of the Red Guard. It would be impossible.”

D’Artagnan nodded as that explained some of the differences between the two Cornets. Although, this one seemed a bit younger and less grizzled; he also seemed a bit more wistful as if something was missing. Something he had long since come to terms with, but still left a hole. “Captain?” He smiled when both men turned toward him. “Captain Cornet, when are we expected at the palace? Should we clean up a bit first?”

“Good idea. We would not want to look less than our best for His Majesty, now would we?” Cornet asked a twinkle in his eye at some inside joke.

 

**The Palace**

The Palace itself looked much the same from the outside. It was not until they entered that d’Artagnan began to notice small changes. Gone were the dark Caravaggio-inspired Baroque paintings, and in their place, hung landscapes, still lifes, and hunting scenes more common to Northern Europe. Interestingly, he liked what he saw mainly the hunting and farming scenes. They made the palace seem more accessible as did the laughing children running through the halls as a hail of High German pleadings and curses uttered by the chasing governesses announced their arrival. D’Artagnan looked over to Cornet for an explanation just in time to see the captain swoop in and grab the apparent leader of the well-dressed mob of children. 

Cornet lifted the boy high into the air and swung him around saying, “Louis, the Dauphin always must show decorum. Or, at the very least, run faster.” He winked at the boy as he set him down.

The solidly pink and healthy child looked up the Cornet blushed and nodded, “Sorry, Captain Cornet.” The rest of the Dauphin’s band of miscreants circled round them their cheeks flushed. They echoed their apologies. The German governesses, each one older and grayer than the last, stopped short.

“Well, my lovely royals, may I introduce Musketeers to you?” Not waiting for a response, “Madame Royale, Henrietta; The Dauphin, Louis; Phillipe, Charlotte, Christine, and Nicholas,” He nodded to each prince and princess, “I present Captain Treville and d’Artagnan.” Both men bowed.

The tiny, tow-headed Christine pushed herself to the front, “What is a musketeer?”

“They are protectors of any citizens of Gascon who need their help,” Cornet quickly responded.

Addressing Treville, “Captain, do you fight with swords and pistols?” asked the lovely Charlotte.

“It is expected, your majesty,” Treville responded.

The Princess Royale’s question, “Do you ride horses and fight in wars?” was overridden by Phillipe’s high-pitched, “Those are lovely blue capes, d’Artagnan. Captain Cornet, why don’t the Red Guard where such lovely blue capes?”

“Because we would not be Red Guards if we did.” Cornet chuckled earning a laugh from the children and the governesses. “Now, where are you also supposed to be right now?”

A bit guilty, the Dauphin responded for the group, “We are supposed to be studying the history of conflict between Spain and France, but it is such a nice day. We wanted to play in the sun.”

“So, you would forego your studies and lead your governesses on a merry chase just to spend some time out of doors?” Cornet raised an eyebrow at the Dauphin.

“Yes, Captain. It is just so stuffy in here.” The other children murmured in agreement.

“Perhaps, your governesses could be persuaded to continue your historical studies in the garden?” He looked at the women surrounding the children.

“ _Ja, Ja._ Just please, no more running. The French palace is not your grandfather’s castle, _meine Lieblinge_.” The oldest attendant insisted as she bustled the children toward the garden doors.

Treville turned toward d’Artagnan his eyebrows raised as he whispered, “Six children--each healthier than the last. Louis’ wish?”

d’Artagnan nodded. Whomever the king married, she must be a robust woman to produce so many children so close in age. “Whom did the king marry, Captain Cornet?”

Cornet looked up over in surprise, “Charlotte Mellendorf. After the murder of the _Infanta_ in Savoy, the Queen Regent immediately set out to find the Dauphin another suitable spouse. The court was running low on funds, so she deemed the wealthy Roman Catholic Count Mellendorf--a noble with many fertile children--a suitable connection to finance the French Court; however, she did not count on the fact that it ended up being a love match--a fertile love match as you can see. Charlotte’s dowry refilled the coffers, and the king and queen eventually banished Maria de’ Medici to the Spanish Netherlands. This information is all common knowledge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have messed with cannon timelines a bit, but--in my defense--the BBC writers did it first. Also, I based the little royals' antics in the palace on stories of Teddy Roosevelt's children racing through the White House on roller skates.
> 
> Footnote
> 
> 1\. Just in case you want to learn more about the parts of a bottle go to: href=“https://sha.org/bottle/morphology.htm”


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville and d'Artagnan experience the change in the court of Louis XIII.

**Chapter 34**

 

“Whom did the king marry, Captain Cornet?”

Cornet looked up at d’Artagnan in surprise, “Charlotte Mellendorf. After the murder of the _Infanta_ in Savoy, the Queen Regent immediately set out to find the Dauphin another suitable spouse. The court was running low on funds, so she deemed the wealthy Roman Catholic Count Mellendorf--a noble with many fertile children--a suitable connection to finance the French Court; however, she did not count on it being a love match--a fruitful love match as you can see. Charlotte’s dowry refilled the coffers, and the king and queen eventually banished Maria de’ Medici to the Spanish Netherlands. This information is all common knowledge.”

Treville and d’Artagnan exchanged surprised looks at Cornet’s short history lesson. Silently, they agreed to drop the matter for now.

“How is the Court here? What can we expect?” asked d’Artagnan.

“I think it would be easier to show you,” Cornet grinned at them. “Follow me.”

 

**The Court of Louis XIII**

 

Treville had been at court on and off for most of his adult life first in Henry IV’s court and then in Louis’ court. Louis and his father ran rather staid audiences. This Louis’ court was something altogether different. 

His first clues to the drastic change were the flashes of color and the cheerful laughter floating through the chamber. He stared fascinated by the icy pastel doublets of the aristocrats and the sumptuously patterned dresses of the courtesans swirled around the ebony cassocks of the bishops and stiff lace collars of the physicians, all in animated discussions. 

Distracted, Treville forced himself to focus on a male voice rising above the rest. A voice he would know anywhere--the voice of his king. His eyes tracked through the lively crowd and settled on the man standing near the dais next to his throne. Gesticulating wildly at the ceiling as he expounded on the virtues of studying the stars was His Most Catholic Majesty, Louis XIII, looking both hearty and hale. To his left, still seated and gazing adoringly up at her astronomer husband sat Her Royal Highness Charlotte, Queen Consort of France. The golden-haired queen followed the king’s monologue closely interrupting occasionally to ask a clarifying question. The king would pause and smile down delighted at his happily attentive wife.

Up until _the incident_ , Treville had loved his king and queen; however, ever since that midnight knock on his door from an insensible, bewildered, and poorly used Aramis, he had been torn between fealty and horror. Now, Treville felt the tightness in his chest ease. Viewing his king as a surrogate son just as he did each of The Inseparables, he was warmed by the sight of the two happy royals. The irony did not escape him. Treville acknowledged the natural consequences if he and d’Artagnan were successful in reinstating their timeline. Chagrinned, he also realized his hypocrisy as Louis was one of the reasons he and d’Artagnan were stuck here in the first place.

His father’s words to him when he accepted his familial duty as a soldier for Hecate rang in his ears, ‘Be sure of your choice, son. As your mother will tell you, it is both a blessing and a curse.’ Treville sighed.

D’Artagnan didn’t much care if the king was happy or not. This timeline was wrong. Ill-gotten gains no matter how happy were still ill-gotten. He scanned the room looking for a sign of any of his brothers. Finally, toward the back of the room near Louis’ right, he espied a familiar figure dressed in blood red, Cardinal Richelieu. 

Not entirely familiar, d’Artagnan amended as he studied the man. This Cardinal was different; although, seemingly just as treacherous. D’Artagnan likened the cardinal from his time to a fox in the henhouse--wiry, lean, single-minded, cold. This Richelieu was more soft, more round, more opulent. Really, he was just more of everything. Here, His Eminence appeared to be a fox that had already eaten all the hens in this henhouse and was confident there would be more in the next henhouse down the road.

Behind the Cardinal, d’Artagnan noticed a movement in the shadows. A man dressed in black stepped out and for a moment looked directly at d’Artagnan showing him that d’Artagnan’s frank staring at the First Minister had not gone unnoticed. The cloaked figure lowered his hood and gracefully slid his ebony cloak to the side freeing his sword. Gently, he rested his hand on the hilt letting his long fingers slowly curl around the handle. D’Artagnan would know that hand, those fingers, anywhere.

D’Artagnan gasped, “Captain.”

Treville and Cornet turned to follow the boy’s gaze. Cornet nodded and held a hand palm up toward the man. Cornet added a soft nod and whispered, “Aramis.”

Aramis returned the nod and relaxed his hand but remained alert as his eyes surveyed the room for any threats to the Cardinal.

This Aramis transfixed d'Artagnan. This man was a far cry from the charming rascal his Aramis enacted at court. Hyper-vigilant, this Aramis swept the room--his eyes and mouth tight; tension dripped off him. This Aramis seemed leaner, harder. His clean-shaven face made him appear much younger possibly even younger than d’Artagnan himself. 

When the Cardinal’s man turned his face into the light, d’Artagnan could make out scars marring his otherwise classic features. Three wine-colored lines started halfway across his cheek, ran down his throat, and into his collar. His Aramis, who sometimes looked too beautiful to be anything but decorative, was surprising lethal. There was nothing decorative or surprising about this man. D’Artagnan, along with--he imagined--everyone else, had no doubt _this_ Aramis was deadly. 

The most significant difference, though, was in his eyes. His Aramis, the real Aramis as far as d’Artagnan was concerned, had inviting, soft amber eyes flecked with gold, eyes that saw the best in you. This Aramis’ eyes were hard and dark. These eyes had only ever seen the worst. Oddly, d’Artagnan felt that familiar need rise in his chest; he felt the need to protect Aramis. Although, he couldn’t remember seeing anyone who seemed less in need of protection than this assassin in the corner. 

Treville’s eyes studied His Eminence and Aramis as one--a wealthy man and his bodyguard. Treville knew Richelieu’s motivations were fueled by his hunger for power be it over a king or a pope. Aramis was a soldier’s soldier. He may question orders, but he also followed them unto death if need be. Whatever power the Cardinal had over this Aramis, he knew Aramis would do his job. Was this Aramis an enemy as Cornet seemed to imply? 

Treville felt Cornet reach his hand out to grab d’Artagnan’s arm just as d’Artagnan was about to take a step. 

Cornet whispered, “Not here. Let’s not challenge the sly fox in his den just yet.” Cornet guided them toward the king. Bowing deeply, “Your majesty?”

Louis looked toward Cornet. Taking in the two impressive, blue-cloaked soldiers beside him, “Ah, Cornet. What do we have here? Soldiers from the front?”

Treville and d’Artagnan exchanged a quick look and eyebrow raise silently asking each other, ‘What front?’ Treville shook his head indicating that particular question would have to wait.

“No, your highness. May I present Captain Treville and his aide-de-camp, d’Artagnan, of Gascony. They are musketeers in service of the Baron de Laà.”

Louis sighed dramatically as Treville and d’Artagnan bowed. It pleased Treville to know that some things did not change.

“How is it that the Baron de Laà has, what did you call them, Musketeers, and I do not?” His tone was more amused than angry. It was obvious the Baron de Laà was a fool the King was forced to suffer.

Treville responded, “Your Majesty. We are a small troop of men--certainly nothing in comparison to your Red Guard.” 

The Cardinal, who had quietly moved within earshot as Cornet approached the King, made a soft grunt. Treville knew the figures he and d’Artagnan cut. Inwardly, Treville smiled happy that this Richelieu was as easy to annoy as his own. 

“Well, I quite like the blue cloaks,” the King continued ignoring his First Minister. “perhaps we should make a color change.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Cornet, Treville, and d'Artagnan share more secrets and make a plan to speak with their missing brothers.
> 
> Note: One line edited for continuity on 6/25/18. No need to reread.

**Chapter 35**

 

**The Court of Louis XIII**

Although Treville and d’Artagnan thoroughly enjoyed listening to the Cardinal sputter about the Red Guard’s crimson-colored capes, both men were eager to discuss what they had seen and whom they had seen namely Aramis. They remained in the King’s presence for a few more minutes as he continued to share his thoughts about fashion trends in Paris. Finally, when the Cardinal brought forth a visiting Swiss bishop, they were free to move away and out of the court. 

Cornet led Treville and d’Artagnan down the long hallway to the gardens and pulled them through the doors. He walked them through the maze of hedges into a secluded corner. Turning slowly toward them, Cornet studied them for a moment, his eyes narrowed, “I take it this,” flourishing a hand back toward the palace, “this is not how things played out with you?”

“No,” Treville paused not sure how much to reveal. Deciding again that they had trusted Cornet so far, he took a breath and continued, “The _Infanta _became Queen Anne in our world. She and Louis have been married many years, and the Queen is only now with child after several miscarriages.” Treville glanced toward d’Artagnan recognizing the look in his eyes indicating a need for an upcoming conversation he did not want to have. Treville knew the boy would wait until they were alone.__

__“Sir, on what front did the king mean we were fighting? Is France at war?” D’Artagnan was purposely attempting to redirect the conversation._ _

__“Not a war, really. More of a border skirmish--Savoy. The Duke of Savoy attacked in retaliation for his wife’s betrayal as Louis’ spy in the Duke’s court. It’s a bit of a balancing act. We must hold Savoy at bay without the Duke relinquishing anything to Spain or England in exchange for aid.”_ _

__Treville, thinking of the diminutive, dark-haired, Princess Royale bravely spying on a man he knew she loved, asked, “What happened to the Duchess?_ _

__“The duke had her hanged on Louis’ birthday over five years ago. I have always considered it a personal failure that we could not find and stop Savoy’s spy in our court.”_ _

__“Cluzet ...” Treville trailed off._ _

__D’Artagnan picked up the thread of conversation, “The spy in our time was Cluzet.”_ _

__“Cluzet. He died in ’31 of the plague. It appears I will ...”_ _

__Treville broke in, “How many have died?”_ _

__“Of the plague?”_ _

__“What? No, no. On the front. How many have died on the Savoyard front?”_ _

__Cornet read the look in Treville’s eyes and answered as succinctly as possible. “A few hundred French infantry, several dozen Red Guard, and perhaps twice that many on the Savoy side.”_ _

__Treville sighed._ _

__“Does this information ease you?”_ _

__“It indicates decisions and actions made in our time were the correct ones; although,” Treville turned to d’Artagnan, “in answer to your question, no, I do not feel eased.”_ _

__D’Artagnan nodded in understanding. Treville was sure the boy’s doleful expression matched his own thoughts. Both men knew--even understanding the end result to his memory--what Aramis would say._ _

__Treville turned to Cornet, “Well, we have located one of our missing brothers. What do you suggest we do next?”_ _

__Cornet thought for a moment, “I would suggest only one of you attempt to speak with Aramis, and I would not lead with the other world part of your story. He might just shoot you,” he added with a wry smile._ _

__Treville’s face softened a bit at Cornet’s attempted humor. “D’Artagnan, tomorrow, you will approach Aramis. See if you can get him talking.”_ _

__“Where would I find him do you think, Captain Cornet?”_ _

__Cornet paused for a moment, then, “Well, I do not keep close tabs on him, but rumor has it that; although he keeps his own rooms, Aramis lives at Palais-Cardinal with Richelieu.”_ _

__Treville knew the grimace on d’Artagnan’s face was mirrored on his own. “What could have happened ...” he trailed off._ _

__“Would it truly be so out of character for _your_ Aramis?”_ _

__Treville nodded. D’Artagnan, affronted at the very question, gritted his teeth and nodded as well._ _

__Cornet continued _sotto_ voice, “There are other rumors, rumors about the cardinal specifically. Rumors that he is an incubus of sorts. He is said to have control over several key political power brokers along with the king, the pope, and Aramis. The powerful makes sense. Richelieu craves power like an opium-eater craves the poppy, but Aramis? Aramis had no power and still has none. Still, the cardinal pursued him. He made up translation tasks for Aramis to do at the Louvre--work his priests could have easily done. Aramis is a skilled soldier, highly skilled, and highly opinionated especially about over-reaching clerics and the like.” Cornet shook his head, “Richelieu could have any number of bodyguards. He did not need Aramis. He would not tolerate his heretical ideas. This has never made sense to me unless ...”_ _

__“Unless?” D’Artagnan prodded._ _

__“Well, I assume your Aramis looks like mine. People used to stop on the streets and stare. Aramis hated it. It is why he started wearing a hooded cape rather than our cloak. I have wondered about Richelieu’s true interest. They say he is an incubus because those he beds answer to him.”_ _

__“His wish. This was Richelieu’s wish--all of it. The power, the wealth, and Aramis.” Treville sighed._ _

__“What wish, sir?”_ _

__“Before we came here. Hecate”_ _

__“Hecate, the Greek Goddess?” Cornet interrupted._ _

__“Yes, d’Artagnan and I both carry her mark. We both serve her. I scried, and she showed me a cabal of sorts from our world performing a gruesome ritual that worked via the making and taking of wishes. I believe we now know two of the four wishes.”_ _

__“Two, sir?”_ _

__“Yes, son. King Louis must have wished for a large family to further the House of Bourbon. Something Queen Anne could not or would not give him. His Eminence, well, as I said, power, wealth, and Aramis. He has desired the first two as long as I have known him. I fear he desired Aramis since the first time he saw him.”_ _

__D’Artagnan let out a quick breath between clenched teeth. “I will kill him.”_ _

__“Let’s hope it does not come to that; although, I am not ruling it out either,” Treville added his voice more of a growl than anything else._ _

__“Are you as protective of your Aramis as you seem to be of mine, Treville?”_ _

__“I dare say more so.” Treville sighed again. “We must reunite our brothers and our lives. I am not quite sure how to do this.”_ _

__Thinking strategically, Cornet offered, “As d’Artagnan is going to try and speak with Aramis tomorrow, why don’t you and I take a ride out to Belgrade’s chateau outside Paris. Perhaps, we can have a conversation with his son, Porthos. We should be gone no more than four days.”_ _

__Treville nodded. “D’Artagnan, that would leave you alone to convince Aramis.”_ _

__“I know what is at stake, sir. I will not fail you.”_ _

__Cornet walked Treville and d’Artagnan out of the gardens and parted ways near the Red Guard barracks. He promised to wake Treville early for their trip to the country._ _

__

__**Back In Their Rooms** _ _

__After returning their dinner dishes to Madame Gerard, an iron-haired woman who looked like she could handle quarter-mastering for the Garrison, d’Artagnan returned to their rooms and sat down at the small table. Treville was already seated._ _

__“Go ahead son, ask what you will.”_ _

__“Sir, I don’t want you to break any oaths or promises, but if Richelieu holds any power over Aramis, I feel I should know all I can about it.”_ _

__Treville rubbed his hands over his face, not unlike the way Porthos did when he was tired. “I can see the logic in your request, d’Artagnan. I did make Aramis a promise that night to help him forget and to be his secret-keeper.”_ _

__“Secret-keeper?”_ _

__“When this is over son, we are going to need to train you as a servant of Hecate,” Treville gave him a droll smile. “A secret-keeper is someone who holds dear a secret of another--holds it even from themselves if needed until released of the responsibility.”_ _

__“So, you cannot tell me.”_ _

__“Unfortunately, quite the opposite. I feel I can tell you, which means the man for whom I agreed to keep the secret has released me of it. As I have not spoken to Aramis, this seems to indicate our Aramis no longer exists--at all.”_ _

__“I don’t understand, Captain. Aren’t our brothers supposed to remember their lives to be returned to us?”_ _

__“I thought that was what Hecate meant. Now, I am not so sure. This world seems so defined, so solid. Almost like it’s meant to be its own sphere. I have to think about that part more once we find all of our brothers.”_ _

__D’Artagnan wondered if Treville’s changing view had more to do with Cornet being alive and Louis being happy than anything else, but he needed the Captain to focus on Aramis right now, so he decided to cross the bridge of Hecate’s message later._ _

__“Sir, what happened to Aramis. He told me what he could remember, but you and I both know, he would never be so cavalier with his brothers’ necks over the Queen--even if she ordered him to her bed. He would not. He is a risk-taker. He is himself ...” beautiful, alluring, flirty, cocky, gentle, kind, “but he would not risk harm coming to any of us. You know this.”_ _

__“I do, son, which is why, when he showed up at my door just before midnight almost four months ago, I believed every word he told me.”_ _


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elephant in the room--part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of the dark tags reference this chapter. If you are at all concerned, please read the end notes. FYI: They will be spoilery.
> 
> Note: Aramis recounts the beginning of this story in Chapter 20.

Chapter 37

 

**Treville’s Door, just Before Midnight, About Four Months ago ...**

 

It was almost a month before the Vernal Equinox, and Treville was up adding another log to his small fireplace. Startling to a knock on his door, he glanced around his room to ensure he had not left out any incriminating tools, he hastily tied his shirt and opened the door. 

Now, Treville was used to knocks, poundings, even kickings at his door truly at all hours of the night, but he was not used to the sight of his longest-serving musketeer at his threshold looking lost, bruised, and shaking uncontrollably.

“Aramis, what ...” he interrupted himself to catch his visitor as Aramis’ knees gave out.

“Sir ... _Ayudame, por favor ... por favor.”_

Frowning at the hoarseness of Aramis’ whisper, “French, Aramis. What happened?” 

Treville managed to pull Aramis inside. He hooked his door with his foot slamming it shut behind them. Off balance, Treville allowed them to sink roughly to the floor. Aramis clenched his eyes shut. He immediately clutched at his captain’s shirt and rested his head on Treville’s shoulder.

“Aramis, you are worrying me to no end. What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Treville tried to turn Aramis’ head, which only made him press more firmly into Treville’s shoulder. _Shame. He is ashamed of something._

“Son, whatever it is. We’ll get through it. I swear.” Treville received a sigh for this but still no explanation. He tried a different tactic, “Aramis, I cannot help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Without opening his eyes or lifting his head, Aramis rasped, “Richelieu, he tricked me. ... He said you were coming. ... I shouldn’t have drunk with him. Sir, he made me ...”

“He made you what?” Treville’s command voice tinged with concern echoed through his quarters.

Aramis, unconsciously straightening up to look Treville in the eye, whispered. “He made me sleep with the queen.”

“What?”

Taking a deep breath, Aramis said, “The Cardinal ... he made me sleep with the queen.”

Gritting his teeth, “Aramis, perhaps you should start at the beginning.” 

Treville disengaged Aramis’ hands so he could move them up to sit on his bed. He closed his eyes and listened to Aramis recount being called to the Louvre to meet him and being escorted to Richelieu’s office. Treville forced himself to relax his clenched jaws before he cracked a tooth. He had spent the entire day with the Comte Jean Baptiste de Sade in his rooms at the _Pavillon de la Reine at The Place des Vosges._ The king was attempting to diplomatically force the Comte to purchase the gear of soldiers born in the Lacoste region. The Comte was a notorious miser making negotiations difficult. Thus, busy verbally fencing and placating, Treville had not stepped foot inside the palace for two days. _Damn, that red menace._

Interrupting, Treville asked, “I know of the blue fairy drink. It makes one highly suggestible. Aramis, what did Richelieu tell you to do ... exactly?”

 

**Earlier in the Day, in Cardinal Richelieu’s Offices ...**

 

Richelieu quickly refilled Aramis’ glass jerking his chin at the musketeer as he commanded him to drink again. Aramis found himself obeying while thinking he did not want to drink anything the cardinal gave him.

“As I said, the blue fairy is new to France but rather an old drink in the Grecian Isles. You have consumed enough now to do my bidding for several hours, which is more than enough time for you to impregnate the queen. Wouldn’t you say?” The Cardinal paused, “Do not speak. In fact, do not make a sound.”

When Aramis was a child called Rene, he fell into a well. He could not remember his exact age or who had helped him escape, but he knew the water was not deep. In the moment, what had frightened him was the slickness of the rocks lining the well--how he could not find a viable nook or cranny to latch onto and climb out; his feet and hands slipping each time he attempted to grab hold.

This is what the blue fairy was like in his head and in his muscles. He kept trying to find something to hold onto, something to anchor his thoughts and allow him to stand up and to leave, but his will could find no purchase. 

Aramis felt a bony hand slide across his face, grab onto his beard, and yank his head up so that he was looking directly into Richelieu’s tarnished-silver eyes. _They match his tarnished-silver soul,_ came Athos dry voice. Aramis’ mouth fell open, but he was unable to so much as grunt in pain.

“Since we have a bit of time ... hmm. Don’t move.” The Cardinal’s fingers slithered down from Aramis’ beard to wrap around his neck. 

Aramis felt his Adam’s apple bob against Richelieu’s thumb as he swallowed convulsively fighting down the panicky gorge in his throat.

“Do not fight me, whore.”

Aramis stilled at the command blinking rapidly in confusion.

“How did I know? I know many things about Treville’s toy soldiers. My spies are everywhere. Imagine my delight at finding Louis’ most favorite little captain was harboring a half-Spanish, _tsinganoi_ whore among his beloved Musketeers.” Richelieu clenched the hand he had around Aramis’ throat.

Aramis felt his eyes go wide. _Tsinganoi?_ That was new information if the Cardinal was telling the truth. Although, on a mission last year on the Spanish border, he found himself able to understand the _Caló_ language of a group of travelers they met along the Spanish border. 

Speaking the language had allowed him to hide both his brothers while they recovered from their injuries during that difficult assignment. He wasn’t even sure if Athos or Porthos ever heard him speak _Caló_. Both had been in and out of consciousness for several days. No one had ever mentioned it again. And, like many of his experiences, he didn’t always remember them until someone or something brought it up again.

Richelieu ripped him from his thoughts, and he silently groaned in disgust as he felt a hand grip his crotch. With both hands on him now, the Cardinal squeezed harder. 

“Do not fight me, _puta española sucia_.” Richelieu’s hands began to pump his throat and cock increasing in speed with every ragged breath he took.

Aramis sucked in the smallest sips of air between Richelieu’s fisting of his throat while realizing his cock was soft. The Cardinal’s, however, was not. He could feel him as he rutted against his upper arm and shoulder. Aramis closed his eyes sensing it would be over soon.

A few strokes later, Richelieu lost his rhythm, “Open your eyes, devil spawn.” 

Aramis obeyed.

Richelieu, eyes locked on Aramis, spent gasping as he continued to grip Aramis’ cock; although, he did not seem to notice or to care that Aramis was flaccid. The Cardinal slumped against him almost knocking Aramis out of his chair. 

After a few moments that felt like hours to Aramis, Richelieu gave Aramis’ cock one last squeeze and stroked his hand up Aramis’ chest to grip the other side of his throat. The last thing Aramis heard as Richelieu tightened the chokehold he had around Aramis’ bruised neck was a command, “Sleep now.”

 

**Later, in the King’s Bedroom ...**

 

“Aramis, wake up.” 

The Cardinal’s command forced Aramis to open his eyes and blearily take in his surroundings. The opulence of the thick purple brocade curtains and richly colored gilded wallpaper indicated he was still in the Louvre; although, he did not believe he had ever been in this particular room.

A soft moan and entreaty of “Marguerite, please ...” broke into his thoughts.

Aramis’ eyes tracked to the far corner of the room opposite the window. He inhaled sharply at the unexpected sight of his queen and one of her ladies-in-waiting locked in a passionate kiss. The lady-in-waiting, Marguerite, ran her hands over the queen’s thin ivory chemise. She reached down to tug up the diaphanous material revealing a pale thigh. 

Marguerite was wearing the height of fashion thus revealing the tops of her rounded bosom and a hint of apricot aureolas. The queen, unsuccessfully, was trying to free Marguerite’s breasts; however, the corseting and starching of the lavender lace bodice was unforgiving forcing her to satisfy herself with a rough palming of powdered white flesh.

Aramis caught glimpses of Marguerite’s hand stroking between the queen’s legs, and both women moaned at what must be Marguerite’s fingering of the queen’s lips.

“Revolting display.” Aramis felt as much as heard the Cardinal’s whispered disgust against his ear. “You see one of the issues with a lack of issue as it were.” Richelieu chuckled at his weak pun. He added, waving toward the giant bed in the center of the room, “There is another.”

The king, apparently fast asleep, was laying naked atop gold-flecked damask bed linens. Aramis noted he appeared as vapid asleep as awake. He glanced back toward his queen and noted with some trepidation that, physically, he was responding to the lovemaking in the corner of the room. He looked up at the cardinal and followed his line of sight back to the king’s groin. Inwardly, he groaned.

He heard Athos’ voice whispering what he always whispered when Aramis allowed his eyes to bounce around Treville’s office during a briefing, _“Focus, Aramis. Do not allow yourself to miss something important because you have a desire to move.”_ That was it wasn’t it. He wanted to move. Unless he was preparing to take a shot, staying this still for this long was unnatural verging on unbearable for him. 

What would’ve been Porthos’ obvious comment on the situation echoed through his head, _“Especially with that going in the corner, eh?”_ Aramis looked again to the queen allowing Marguerite to remove her chamise and reveal her well-formed body. Against his will, he felt himself begin to harden.

What was wrong? _“Focus, Aramis.”_ He pictured Athos growling into his ear. Oh. Aramis realized he was still under the power of the blue fairy, and the cardinal had not released him from his earlier command. He tried to shake his head to clear it to no avail. Did he truly have no control over his own body? He must be able to do something.

He remembered d’Artagnan asking during their unfortunate capture and imprisonment in Calais last month, “What can we do when we can do nothing?” 

 

_”We can always do something while we wait for our brothers to aid in our return to their sides.”_

_“You mean rescue us, don’t you?” D’Artagnan winked at him in appreciation of Aramis’ refusal to be powerless._

_“We are not damsels in distress; therefore, we do not need rescuing, whelp. We just need a bit of help. That’s all.”_

_“That would be a bit more believable if your ribs weren’t cracked and my ankle wasn’t sprained.”_

_Aramis waved his shackled hand, “Details, details.”_

_“Really, I wonder. What would Athos and Porthos do right now were they in our position?”_

_“Ah, well ... as we will do, they would wait for their captors to return.”_

_“And when they did?”_

_Aramis smiled at d’Artagnan’s barely disguised ‘teach me, now’ expression. “Athos would attempt to reason with these men. Porthos, disliking the English as he does, would see if he could lure one close enough to ensnare a wayward throat in his chains.”_

_“And you? What would you do? What will you do, Aramis?”_

_“I find a distraction, especially an outré distraction, to be the most useful.”_

_Giving him a confused-puppy tilt of his head, d’Artagnan asked, “Like what?”_

_As if on cue, one of their jailers entered the cell. Aramis smiled at d’Artagnan when the boy realized it was the toothy mercenary who had been rather forward when patting Aramis down for hidden weapons._

_Aramis gave the pale-skinned soldier The Stare and relaxed his body into his best come-hither stance._

_Rolling his eyes, d’Artagnan sighed and waited for an opening._

 

Aramis caught Richelieu’s eye and glanced at the king with what he hoped was a questioning look.

The Cardinal, apparently feeling talkative, nodded. “Our illustrious ruler claims that he cannot make love to one he does not love--whatever that means. He refused to allow me to rectify the situation _a la Medici_ so ...” he sighed, “ We go this route.”

While Richelieu talked, Aramis began testing his limbs. He found he could move nothing significantly except his head. He was well and truly caught. _I’m sorry my brothers. You did warn me. I should have heeded you.”_

“Her Majesty is ready, Cardinal.” Marguerite, breathless, walked her over to the Récamier chaise lounge where, against his will, Aramis reclined.

Belatedly, Aramis realized he was naked from the waist down.

Aramis turned toward the rustle of silk against skin. He hardened further at the faint pink flush of his queen’s cheeks and blonde curls haphazardly falling across her shoulders. 

The Queen kept her eyes on Marguerite looking at Aramis only as she climbed atop him to straddle his thighs. “Close your eyes, musketeer.”

Aramis obeyed.

The Cardinal spoke next, “You will impregnate the queen, now. Move as needed to spend. Once you have spent, you will go back to sleep.”

Aramis wondered if it was possible to order a baby into creation. He supposed if anyone thought they could do such a thing it would be Richelieu. 

He heard the Cardinal ask, “What are you doing?”

Marguerite answered over the sound of skin rubbing against skin, “The king must believe he is the father, yes? This will convince him.” Then, apparently to the king, “Spend, now.”

A grunt followed along with the sounds of disgust from the two women and the Cardinal.

“Go back to sleep, your highness. You have performed as a king should.”

Before Aramis could give the exchange any thought, he felt the queen push down onto him. He canted his hips and began to thrust into his monarch wishing he could see and grateful he could not. He felt her pushing her thighs up and down to meet him. He knew he was close when his rhythm faltered. Oddly, the queen’s rhythm faltered as well.

The room was filled with their panting. Aramis groaned as he spent sure he heard a matching soft moan from her majesty as he fell back asleep.

 

 

 

 _Ayudame, por favor ... por favor_ \-- Spanish for: Help me, please ... please

 _tsinganoi_ \-- French for: Rom

 _Caló_ \-- The name of the language spoken by the Rom people of Spain and Portugal

 _puta española sucia_ \-- Spanish for: dirty Spanish whore

 _a la Medici_ \-- In this case, Richelieu is referring to the old family favorite, arsenic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Aramis shares the first part of his experience being under Richelieu's control via the blue fairy. This episode is my non-cannon take on how Queen Anne becomes pregnant by Aramis and not her husband.
> 
> For Aramis, it is non-consensual; although, it is not overtly physically violent (no blood, no gore). It is violent from a psychological standpoint. He is used, raped, for his ability to impregnate the queen.
> 
> If you would find this triggering in any way, I would suggest reading ONLY the part that takes place in Treville's quarters, which covers the aftermath in broad strokes. 
> 
> If even that is too much, skip this entry and know that Aramis (even though it was against his will) viewed this event as cheating on his lovers, and he will talk to them about it in a later chapter.


End file.
